


Heart of the Huntress

by TheFemPC



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Cultural Differences, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friendship is Magic, Love, Unresolved Tension, war/conflict
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-02-28 18:44:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 59
Words: 141,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2743190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFemPC/pseuds/TheFemPC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Etain Lavellan lives by the words of her clan: "unbowed, unbent, unbroken".<br/>After a simple reconnaissance mission goes wrong, she wakes up bound in shackles, labelled a murderer and heretic by her jailers.<br/>But what began as her death sentence soon becomes her legacy.<br/>In a world ravaged by war and conflict, Etain discovers many strange and wonderful things, old hatreds unraveling and new ones forming.<br/>Amidst it all, her patience and resolve are tested by a prideful creature bearing the visage of a lion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Savage Beauty

Two hours had passed since the prisoner was brought to the dungeons. 

She was the only survivor of the chaos and destruction of the conclave. The Divine was dead, along with all the others who had attended the meeting. Yet this elf, barely conscious found in the remnants of the Divine’s own chambers, still survived. There was little doubt this was all her doing, though how she had managed it was beyond anyone’s understanding.

Her hand emanated a luminous green glow, and appeared to be causing her great pain. Many had surmised that it was a link to the breach in the sky, which loomed threateningly over the snow covered mountains, casting its sickly glow over everything its light touched. Demons swarmed the area in large numbers, and maintaining their position was becoming a growing difficulty. Soldiers and civilians alike were still reeling in shock, demanding an explanation for this strange and terrifying turn of events. They wanted blood.

Specifically, hers. 

How or why she had done it still remained a mystery, however. Restraining her long enough to get an answer was a great deal more difficult than anticipated. 

Commander Cullen leaned against the stone wall of the prison dungeon, massaging his temples irritably. His soldiers had managed to get her from the ruins to the conclave with little issue, given her barely conscious state, but as soon as she was thrown into the cell, the situation changed. As soon as she had made contact with the hard, stone floor, she seemed to have been jolted back to reality. He had heard the loud, defiant screams all the way across the prison yard, and knew instinctively that the process of gaining information was going to be problematic.  
His soldiers did their best to keep a distance from her cell, and for good reason. Three failed attempts at shackling her had resulted in at least five of his best soldiers being injured, or so he was told. He had arrived to find them nursing broken arms and several bruises. How she had managed it without a weapon only served to raise more questions, and further demoralize the men. 

She stalked the shadowed area of her confinement like a wild animal, nostrils flaring, teeth flashing from beneath a mess of silver-blonde hair that engulfed her features. He felt her molten gaze on him as he watched the shadows, although he could make out little in the darkness. The dungeon was silent for a time, save for the hushed whispers of the soldiers as they huddled together like a group of gossiping villagers, occasionally glancing around the corner to see why she had gone silent . The foolishness of their behavior was grating on his nerves, his patience worn thin. 

“Makers breath, someone get in their and restrain that….savage!” he barked, turning to face the wary soldiers behind him. He needed information, and he needed it now. His place was on the frontlines, overseeing his troops, not overseeing the simple task of restraining a prisoner for questioning. 

His words had clearly struck a cord, but not with the men. The elf shot out from the darkness, flinging herself at the bars. He had only just managed to step out of the way as her arms reached out to grab him, the ominous glow of her hand illuminating her face, her passive, unreadable expression twisting into one of pure rage. 

“AR TU NA’DIN, SHEMLEN!” she spat, shaking the bars violently. “COME HERE AND SAY THAT AGAIN!”

Her sudden outburst shook him right to the core, forcing him back against the wall. He suddenly understood why his men were so afraid of her. Although he knew she could not reach him he still did not dare to step any closer. Her long, pointed ears were pinned back against her head, her oddly sharp teeth glinting as her lips curled into a sharp sneer of defiance. 

Suddenly aware of the inquisitive gazes of his men, he stood up straight and composed himself, clearing his throat. She cocked her head at him, her animalistic grin only widening. “Ma emma harel, shem” she hissed, kicking one the bars and laughing like a madman as she glared at him.  
Her words were entirely foreign to him, but the level of condescension in her tone was enraging. 

Cullen looked away from her then, refusing to meet her challenging gaze. He stalked out of the cell and down the corridor. The remaining soldiers stood to attention and saluted as he passed, and he was quick to round on them. “Have you gone deaf?” he snarled at the first one who met his gaze. “I said get in there and restrain her now! And by the maker, someone get seeker Penteghast in there so we can get some damned answers!”

The soldiers gulped and nodded, lowering their heads before they incurred more of his anger. He shook his head irritably and walked briskly from the dungeons and out into the open air. Behind him, her defiant shouting had resumed. Makers breath, he would be glad to get back to the battle and get away from this.  
Her outburst only served to further incriminate her as far as he was concerned. She was a wild, dangerous thing in every sense. How she had gone unnoticed at the conclave was beyond him. The trial would no doubt be something to behold, if they ever managed to keep her still long enough to bind her hands. He swallowed hard at the thought of those dark eyes peering at him from the shadows, watching him like a predator waiting for the perfect chance to strike and devour. 

He shook the thought from his head and threw his shoulders back, determined to maintain his composure before anyone caught wind of how shaken he was by what he had just seen. 

One of the soldiers brought his horse from the stables. He mounted swiftly and galloped towards the forward outpost, putting all thoughts of the terrifying, beautiful wild creature in the dungeons out of his mind.


	2. Accusations

Restrain that savage.

 

Etain Lavellan pondered on those words for quite some time after she had regained consciousness. She had put up a fight for as long as she could before the pain in her hand became too much to bear. Now she kneeled in the cold, dark prison cell, her wrists bound with rope and fixed with iron shackles for good measure. Four heavily armoured soldiers surrounded her, their blades pointed towards her threateningly. She felt their gazes upon her, and it sickened her.

The sharp pain in her hand was threatening to take over again, but she fought it as hard as she could, wincing as it crackled and burned right to her very core. But she would endure, she had to endure, at least to die with dignity.

Creators, if she could just get her hands on that shem-the one who spoke those words-break his neck with just one quick jerk of the wrists...she could at least die with some sense of satisfaction.

Death was the inevitable outcome now. When she had set out to keep watch over the events at the conclave, she had been careful enough to abandon her ranger regalia in a safe place and don the simple clothing of a servant so as not to arouse suspicion. Her vallaslin she concealed with a mixture of chalk and special soft toned inks that the keeper had given her. A dalish elf would surely stick out like a sore thumb in a meeting primarily comprised of chantry officials and Templars. Assuming the guise of a flat-ear would be much safer, as many of the servants were from the alienage, and hardly ever noticed by the humans they served.  
Her mission had been going relatively well until…

She furrowed her brow in confusion. What had happened? How had she ended up in human custody? One moment she had been carefully observing the dignitaries in attendance, subtly seeking information regarding the possible outcome of the meeting, the next she was being hauled to her feet by soldiers, the strange and painful mark on her hand consuming her with unfathomable pain.

The door to her cell was flung open, interrupting her thoughts. The soldiers sheathed their swords and stepped back. She kept her head down, fixing her gaze on the strange, crackling mark and its luminous green glow. Two individuals stepped in from the corridor and the door shut with a slam. She raised her head, eyeing them intently. Both women, though highly contrasted. one dressed in light armour, her lavender hood hiding most of her features save for her short red hair, the other a tall, lithe woman in heavy armour bearing a strange sigil on the front,. Their intent, threatening gazes were fixed on her, but she refused to meet their eyes.  
The armoured woman circled her silently, stopping just behind her and leaning close to her ear.

“tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now” she said threateningly. 

Etain merely watched as she paced before her.

“The conclave is destroyed, everyone who attended is dead” she turned to face her then, a flash of anger in her cold eyes as her tone wavered ever so slightly. “except for you”

Etain shot a confused glance at both women, remaining silent despite the accusation that remained unspoken. Until now she hadn’t really thought about why she was in the cell, only the outcome of being there. The reality hadn’t truly set in. Now the mark was beginning to worry her even more. 

Her accuser leaned in and snatched up her wrist, raising it to her eye level. 

“Explain this”

Bewilderment overtook her. As though the mark sensed the contact, it burst into another display of luminous light, sending a painful surge through her. She grit her teeth together and wrenched her wrist out of the womans tight grasp.

“I cant!” she hissed defiantly.

“what do you mean you can’t?”

Etain shook her head. “I don’t know what it is or how it got there”

Her accuser grabbed her by the loose cloth of her tunic and shook her violently. 

“you’re lying!”

If she had gotten any closer, Etain would have happily thrown herself forward at that moment and knocked her off guard. But instead, the red-haired woman behind her pulled her companion back. “Cassandra, stop. We need her”

Etain flashed a glance at both of them, the lack of coherent information grating on her last nerve. “whatever you think I did, im innocent!”

The red-haired woman turned to her, ignoring her proclamation entirely. “do you remember what happened?how this began?”

She was prepared to answer with a swift “no”, but she thought on the question for a moment, and a sudden rush of images raced through her mind. “I remember running” she said, shutting her eyes to clarify the images as they flashed before her eyes. “things were chasing me…then…a woman?”

“a woman?”

“she reached out to me…but then..”

Her shoulders slumped for a moment as she tried to focus more on the events, but nothing else came to her. It was as though someone had ripped a portion of her memories from her mind. 

“go to the forward camp, Lelliana” Cassandra said, with a strangely gentle tone. “I will take her to the rift”

as the other woman left, Cassandra knelt down and tended to the shackles. She felt a dull sense of relief when they fell to the ground, though her wrists were still bound with rope. “what did happen?”

Cassandra lifted her to her feet then, steadying her as she attempted to regain balance. “it…will be easier to show you”

 

The harsh light emanating in the sky forced her to shield her eyes with her arms. She had not expected…anything like this. The dark, swirling vortex of green hung ominously over the mountains, like the maw of some great beast thundering out a threatening call to the world.

“we call it the breach,it’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. Its not the only such rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the conclave”

creators, an explosion caused that?

A huge ripple of dark energy emanated from the rift, and once again the mark reacted, but this time the force of pain forced her to her knees and she cried out. Cassandra, who was now displaying a suspicious sense of empathy, offered her hand to help her back onto her feet. She took the taller womans hand and grimaced at the dizzy sensation flooding her mind.

“unless we act, the breach may grow until it swallows the world” she continued, her brow set in a grim line. “each time the breach spreads, the mark expands….and it is killing you. It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time”

Etain stood for a moment, staring at the monstrous tear in the sky. Whatever that…thing was, it was a danger to more than just the people here, that much was painfully obvious. She thought of her clan, far away in the free marches, likely looking up at the sky with worry. Many innocent people would die if all that Cassandra said was true, even her kinsman. 

“if you think this is the mark is the key..” she sighed, shaking her head slightly. “ill stay…I’ll help.”

Cassandra looked at her with surprise. She could have grinned at that, were she not feeling quite so dumbfounded by the situation. 

She merely nodded at her before placing a hand on her shoulder and guiding her forward. 

As they passed through the makeshift village, soldiers and commoners alike backed away from her as though she were a pariah, some staying silent while others shouted insults and slander. Etain held her head high, maintaining as much of her pride as possible despite her bound hands. Those brave enough to get to close received a formal warning in the form of a threatening growl from her, and she could feel the other womans disapproval emanating as she pushed her through the crowd. 

“They have decided your guilt. They need it. The people of Haven mourn the most holy, divine Justinia, head of the chantry. The conclave was hers”

She merely nodded passively. 

Of course they had.

And what easy blame it was. The dalish elf who didn’t belong. A savage creature that deserved nothing but restraint. She could have been miles away from the conclave and still they probably would have blamed her.


	3. Pressing on

Once the gates had been shut behind them, Cassandra cut the tight rope bonds from her wrists. Etain flexed her fingers with a frown, noting the deep purple welts on her wrists that would likely take days to disappear. 

“There will be a trial, I can promise no more” the woman said, nodding in the direction of the mountain path. “come”

“Where are you taking me?” Etain asked guardedly, eyeing her with suspicion.

“Your mark must be tested on something smaller than the breach”

Now that her hands were free, she raised her arm to her mouth and pulled at the loose fabric of her tunic with her teeth, tearing off a thin strip of cloth. She pulled the hair back from her face and weaved the long tresses into a quick braid, all the while Cassandra gaped at her like a fool. The woman’s black hair was cut short, no doubt she did not understand the practical reasoning behind the momentary pause. Etain had no doubt there would be dangers ahead, and free-flowing hair was a terrible distraction when it obscured her vision. Once the braid was pulled tight, she threw it over her shoulder and gave her a nod. “Apologies, lead on” 

They moved swiftly up the path towards the valley. Etain could not tear her gaze from the ominous tear in the sky. It was like something out of a nightmare, casting a sickly green light over the land below, spewing torrents of dark energy that shook the ground on impact. Perhaps the keeper would be able to discern its origin. Though, she amended, it was likely she would not get the chance to share such information now.   
Another ripple of energy from the sky above and the ground was trembling violently. She opened her mouth in a silent scream as pain ripped through her, forcing her to her knees. Even know she felt her cheeks turning crimson with shame. Years spent in training had given her an immensely high tolerance for pain, but this was…unnatural, internal.   
Cassandra moved quickly to her side, her hands gently guiding her to her feet. Etain looked up at the woman with curiosity, wondering at her sudden expression of concern but offering a courteous nod of thanks nonetheless. 

“The pulses are coming faster now”

Soldiers were running down the path now, crying out assurances that these were the end times or prayers to the maker. Etain couldn’t help but roll her eyes even now, though the source of their fears was understandable enough. 

“The larger the breach grows, the more rifts appear.” Cassandra said grimly. ” The more demons we have to face”

“How did I survive the blast?” Etain asked, as good a time as any to enquire, she supposed. 

“They say you stepped out of a rift, then fell unconscious”

They came to the bridge leading into the open valley, more soldiers pouring through the gates ahead as they pressed a retreat. 

“they say a woman was in the rift behind you, but no one knows who she w-“

Suddenly, a bolt of energy erupted from the breach, striking the bridge with such immense force that the stone beneath her feet gave way and she was sent crashing into the frozen ground beneath, narrowly avoiding the rubble that followed. Beside her, Cassandra groaned, rubbing the back of her head as she rolled onto her side. Another bolt of energy hurdled towards the valley like a meteor. It struck the ground with less force, erupting into a pool of black ichor upon impact. she narrowed her eyes at the settling dust, focused on the dark figure that was forming before her eyes. Demon. the unworldly hissing was enough confirmation. 

“ stay behind me!” Cassandra ordered, drawing her sword as she raised her shield and ran at the demon that skulked towards them. 

As soon as Cassandra was gone from her side, it was clear that it was not alone. Another black pool bubbling ominously right in front of her, moments from producing the creature within. Etain shot a glance around the area, searching for something, anything, that would serve as a weapon. Her eyes fell upon the broken wagon that had also tumbled from the bridge. A glint of steel, half obscured by the rubble, likely a sword. She raced towards it, pulling it free from its hiding place just as the demon took form. She had but a moment to adjust to the weight of the blade before it uttered a despicable screech as it lunged at her, claws seeking to rend her flesh. She easily dodged it, slicing into the wretched creatures side again and again as she forced it back towards the open valley where Cassandra was still warding off its companion. Her heart was thumping from the exhilaration, glad of the comfort of a weapon however poorly made it was. It was certainly sharp enough for her purpose. One more deep slice and it melted away with a pained scream, followed shortly from another as her companion struck a killing blow. She gave a sigh of relief and shook her head.   
“its over”

Cassandra rounded on her rather suddenly, her blade pointed at her throat. “Drop your weapon. Now”

Etain looked at her incredulously, tightening her grip on the sword. So much for kindness, she mused, trying to hide an amused smirk. There was no way she would continue this venture unarmed. Unarmed combat was all fine and well when dealing with humans, but demons were another story. 

“A demon attacked me, I had to defend myself” she said slowly, calmly, as though she were trying to calm a panicked halla. “I hardly think that was the last of them”

They regarded each other for a long moment before Cassandra finally relented with a sigh, sheathing her blade. “you’re right. I cannot protect you, and I cannot expect you to be defenseless”

Etain bowed her head in thanks. Despite their predicament, she was thankful that the woman was at least rational and level headed compared to most of the shems she had encountered so far. And a damnsight more courteous, though that wasn’t saying much. Cassandra was already on the move again before she paused, looking back at her thoughtfully. “I should remember you did not attempt to run.”

Oh, but the thought had crossed her mind. As soon as her bonds were cut she could have made an attempt. The soldiers were far too frantic to have been of much use in detaining her. But this mark was another story. Even when it wasn’t crippling her she could feel its unnatural magic crackling under the skin of her palm. If what the raven-haired woman said was true, it was also her death sentence.


	4. Decisions

“There, up on the ridge!”

Demons were not unfamiliar territory for Etain. Though she had never seen them reign from the sky, nor in such numbers, travelling through areas where the veil was thin gave her enough understanding as to how to defend against them. Keeper Deshana, of course, had versed everyone in the clan at some point or another on the variations from lesser to greater, and what their powers entailed.  
These ones weren’t particularly powerful, nothing more than shades and wraiths. Despite their semi-corporeal forms, enough strikes could put them down. While Cassandra drew the attention of the shades, she took to the shadows and moved up the path, lunging at the wraith while it was focusing its fire on the area below. They were dealt with quickly, but there was certainly conflict ahead. “We’re getting close to the rift. You can hear the fighting.” 

“Who’s fighting?” Etain asked as they ran up the stone steps towards the source of the noise. 

“you’ll see”

Sure enough, a small force were engaging the demons not far ahead, in front of what she could only assume was the rift Cassandra spoke of. Her left hand crackled at its closeness, but she simply tightened her fingers around her pommel of the sword and pressed the attack. Shades were appearing all around them, but the reinforcements at her back were enough to keep them maintained.  
A handful of foot soldiers and, to her surprise, a dwarf wielding a crossbow, and an elven mage. She had barely registered their presence until the demons in their wake were cleared. The elf in particular spiked her curiosity. No vallaslin, so surely not Dalish, though his rough, padded clothing suggested a penchant for the wandering life. 

“Quickly! Before more come through!”

He took hold of her wrist with surprising haste, hoisting it high into the air. The glow in her palm burst into a blinding light, and the rift before her rippled defiantly before collapsing in on itself, and the air around them was suddenly calm once more. 

“what did you do?” she asked, wrenching her wrist from his grasp with a reprimanding look.

“I did nothing” he said, his voice strangely calm given the circumstances. “the credit is yours”

“you mean the mark” she corrected him. Whatever it was that had just occurred, she certainly hadn’t enacted it. 

“whatever magic opened the breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the breaches wake- and it seems I was correct”  
“meaning it could close the breach itself” Cassandra interjected, wiping the blood from her blade with her sleeve.

“Possibly” he shrugged, regarding Etain with a gentle smile. “it seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

“good to know” the dwarf behind her piped up. “and here I thought we’d be ass deep in demons forever”

He slung his crossbow over his shoulder, hitching it into its leather sheath straps. “Varric Tethras; rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong”

For the first time since her imprisonment, she found herself smiling. The blonde-haired dwarf had a strangely calming presence that made her feel a little more at ease. At least now she wasn’t the only one who stood out here. 

“Pleased to meet you.” Her eyes fell upon the crossbow on his back. She’d seen weapons of that manner before, but this one was a beast in comparison.  
That’s…a nice crossbow you have there”

“ah, isn’t she? Bianca and I have been through a lot together”

“you named your crossbow Bianca?” she smiled, noting the doting look he was giving his beloved weapon.

“of course, and she’ll be great company in the valley”

“Absolutely not!” Cassandra protested. “your help is appreciated Varric but-“

“Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker? Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me”

Cassandra rolled her eyes at him and groaned irritably, muttering something under her breath as she turned her back to him. 

“My name is Solas, if there are to be any introductions” the elf said then, bowing his head courteously. “I am pleased to see you still live”

“He means “I kept that mark from killing you while you slept” “ Varric chuckled.

“Ma melava halani?” she replied in her native tongue, subtly attempting to coax out the nature of his upbringing. “Ma serannas, Solas.”

His eyes brightened with understanding at her words. “Thank me if we manage to close the breach without killing you”

“Cassandra, you should know; the magic involved here is like nothing I’ve seen” he said then, rounding on the seeker with a look of concern. “your prisoner is no mage. Indeed I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power.”  
“Understood” the seeker replied, gesturing once more to the path ahead. “we must get to the forward camp quickly”

 

Etain stood motionless for a moment, pondering Solas’ words as he and Cassandra took the lead. Her ignorance regarding the situation was grating on her nerves to say the least. The breach in the sky, the mark on her hand, the distinct lack of memories pertaining to this turn of events….it was far from what she’d imagined when she’d set out on her journey. On top of it all, the highly likely outcome for her was death. Yet, it didn’t frighten her in the least. If she was the only one who could close the breach, she could at least die of her own accord. 

Better than rotting in a cell waiting for the world to collapse into ruin.

“Well” Varric sighed, offering her a sympathetic smile. “Bianca’s excited!”

 

“So, what do we call you then?”

Etain busied herself picking up whatever she could fit in her pockets along the way. She avoided the corpses of the soldiers, not wishing to disrespect the dead even if they weren’t her kind, but there were plenty of ruined wagons with a few useful supplies; some health poultices that fit nicely into her belt pouch, a few bandages, a half- empty bottle of mead (which she gladly drained before tossing the bottle away), and to her delight, a second short blade, better made than the last one at least despite its blunter edges. 

“Lavellan” she answered over her shoulder, hoping that would suffice. She never gave her first name to anyone outside the clan, and hopefully neither Varric nor the others would question it. 

“So…are you innocent?”

“I don’t remember what happened”

She heard Varric chuckle behind her. “That’ll get you every time. Should’ve spun a story”

“that’s what you would have done” Cassandra added crassly, giving Etain the distinct impression that there was some affiliation between the two prior to these events. 

“its more believeable! And less likely to result in premature execution.”

“I didn’t come to the conclave to assassinate anyone” she interjected, the exchange serving to at least take her mind off the dismal events unfolding around her. “Especially not the Divine. I’ve no interest in starting a holy war, and neither do my people”

“Good to know” Cassandra said flatly. “Though others may not be easily convinced”

“So you believe me then, seeker?” 

“im starting to, yes.”

Etain smirked at that. She wasn’t in the habit of speaking with shems often, but she was beginning to warm to the seeker. She had a sound sense of logic and a rather gruff mannerism not unlike her fathers, not to mention an extremely respectable prowess in combat. Most women she came across in villages were weak and ill- built for combat, but this one was strong and sturdy. 

Another rift blocked the gate ahead. Demons patrolled around it, but not enough to be troubling to their numbers. 

‘The rift must be closed, quickly!” Solas shouted, deploying his magic effortlessly beside her. 

This time she did not need his guidance. The mark seemed to activate of its own accord when the time was right, and once the demons were vanquished, she raised her hand and felt the torrent of energy sealing the rift until it blurred out of existence. She felt less pain from it than she anticipated, despite the exertion. 

“Clear, for the moment. Well done”

“whatever that mark on your hand is, its useful”

They passed through the gates once the area was secure. There were some soldiers stationed on the bridge, their post better fortified and supplied than those they had passed by previously. Etain recognized the red haired woman ahead-Cassandra’s companion from the dungeons- engaged in a heated discussion with a chantry clerk, neither of them looking particularly pleased.  
“Ah here they come” the clerk announced loudly as they approached. 

Lelliana at least looked slightly more pleased at the sight of them. “You made it. Chancellor Roderick, this is-“

“I know who she is” the chancellor snapped, regarding Etain with a cold look she was all too familiar with. “As grand chancellor of the chantry I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution!”

Etain’s eyes widened, and she couldn’t help the grin that was spreading across her face. Now here was a shem that did not surprise her in the slightest. Despite her glare, the man refused to meet her eyes, instead focusing on her companions, as though she were no more than a stray dog in a marketplace, unable to comprehend his words.

“Order me? You are a glorified clerk, a beaurocrat!”

“And you are a thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the chantry”

Lelliana, Cassandra and the chancellor continued their benign argument until Etain could take no more. “don’t talk as though im not here” she remarked coolly.

“you shouldn’t even be here!” the chancellor exclaimed, rubbing his forehead in frustration. “Call a retreat, Seeker. Our position here is hopeless.”

“we can stop this before it’s too late”

“How? You wont survive long enough to reach the temple. Not even with your soldiers”

“we must get to the temple, it’s the quickest route”

“but not the safest” Lelliana weighed in. “the soldiers can charge as a distraction while we take the mountain path”

“we lost an entire squadron of scouts on that route. Its too risky”

Etain rolled her eyes and leaned against the wall of the bridge. All this arguing was simply wasting time. She wondered at the sheer lack of organization this so called army displayed. Even at the worst of times her clansmen had never been so easily scattered and flustered. Granted the situation was far from ordinary, surely with so many soldiers in the area there would be some level of decorum? 

Another tremor from the maelstrom above them and the mark was crackling like a bonfire. She held her arm steady with her other hand, allowing herself nothing more than a silent twitch despite the ongoing pain. Solas gave her a quizzical look before his features softened and he offered her a sympathetic smile. When the pain died down, she did not smile back. For all his kind words and calmness, her instincts were telling her that something was amiss about him. His eyes didn’t seem to match his expressions. There was something deeper within them, a well-concealed enigma that she could neither trust nor distrust. 

She was distinctly aware of their gazes upon her as they watched the green energy seep back into her palm once more. 

“how do you think we should proceed?” it took Etain a moment to realize that the seekers question was directed at her. 

“you’re asking me?”

“you have the mark” Solas reminded her.

“And you are the one we must keep alive. Since we cannot agree on our own…”

She looked up at the mountain range and narrowed her eyes. Missing scouts did not mean dead scouts, and old habits were coaxing her to investigate. They may not have been her people, but their lives were at risk so far out of range,more so than the forces in the valley. 

“we’ll take the mountain path” she concluded. “work together. You all know what’s at stake”


	5. The breach

Their journey across the mountain path yielded many more demons, of a stronger caliber than those they had encountered previously the closer they came to the breach. The scouts at least still lived, and were extremely grateful for backup when another rift appeared in the ruins they had taken shelter in. when they realized who she was, they were notably surprised, but not at all hostile as the soldiers had been. 

The ruins of the temple came into view as they descended the stone path. The closer they got, the more apparent the unnatural destruction became. Etain vaguely remembered its appearance before the destruction. It had been ornate in comparison to the village temples she had seen in her travels. Its interior, though she knew she had observed it, she could not remember. Whatever it had been, however, barely more than a skeletal structure of toppled walls remained. Veins of green streaked across the ground and stone. All around them, charred corpses flittered the area, flames licking at their skin, faces and limbs frozen in horror. She shuddered at the sight of them. 

“There, that is where you walked out of the fade and our soldiers found you” Cassandra gestured ahead. “They say a woman was behind you. No one knows who she was”

Yes, that she could remember. The fragmented images chased through her mind in rapid succession just like before. The shadowy creatures that pursued her, the illuminated figure that willed her to run, the rough hands of the soldiers who hauled her to her feet, the cold stone floor of the cell that roused her from unconsciousness and into a panicked fury. 

The air was growing more and more stifling the closer they came to the apex of the destruction. Jagged crimson rocks jutted out from the walls surrounding what was once the temple’s center. Her every sense felt repulsed by their closeness. Beside her, Varric looked visibly distressed at the very sight of them.  
“That’s red lyrium, Seeker” He whispered to Cassandra, Bianca held firmly in his hands. “how the hell did it get here?”

“It must have been growing deep beneath the temple, drawn out when the breach opened”

Etain craned her neck, her eyes following the thick, green beam of light that tethered the breach to the ground below. Many more corpses littered the area, the flames around them lighting their path like despicable beacons. 

“you’re here, thank the maker!” Lelliana ran towards them, her scouts in tow.

“Lelliana, have your men take up position around the temple” Cassandra said shortly. 

She nodded in response, her scouts scurrying to find higher ground. The seeker turned to Etain, her eyes hardened with determination. “This is your chance. Are you ready?”

“I’ll do what I can” Doubt laced her tone as she eyed the huge rift below. “But I don’t know if I can reach that, much less close it”

“No, this was the first, and it is the key” Solas said assuredly. 

“Then lets find a way down and get this done” she said determinedly, hoisting herself over the parapet and onto the ground below.

Now is the hour of our victory…

The deep voice echoed through the ruins ominously. It sounded…familiar, but its source was nowhere to be seen. A shudder ran down her spine. 

Bring forth the sacrifice…

She cleared another parapet, landing gracefully only a few feet away from the rift. It was much larger than the others, tendrils of energy twisting around the jagged, ethereal nodes protruding from the fade itself. Her mark was surging again, painful, but not painful enough to distract her from the rift as it shifted ominously before her. The air was despicably humid, like the prelude to a dangerous thunderstorm. 

Someone, help me!

What’s going on here?

A woman’s voice this time, laced with a thick Orlesian accent, yet again, sounding frustratingly familiar. And…her own voice? Her heart and mind were both racing now, like the irretrievable memories were begging to be released.

“That was your voice!” Cassandra exclaimed incredulously. “Most holy called out to you, but…”

Before she could answer, the rift began to shift violently, the stifling air around them becoming a torrent of dark mist. Within the mist she saw a formless figure, dark and imposing, its glowing red eyes gazing at another incorporeal figure suspended in the air before it; that of Divine Justinia herself. Another form appeared then. This time it was her own, regarding the situation with a hostile suspicion, reaching for the knife concealed in her belt. It was a memory, she realized, the one she could not recall previously. 

“Run while you can. Warn them!” the image of Justinia cried out fearfully, struggling against the magic that was restraining her. 

The dark figure turn to her image the. “we have an intruder.” Its oddly sharp finger was pointing at her now, but whoever it was speaking to was obscured from her sight. “Slay the elf.”

The mist dispersed with a sudden burst, leaving the area clear once more. 

“You were there!” Cassandra gasped, eyes wide with shock as frantic questions tumbled from her lips. “Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…? Was the vision true? What are we seeing?!”

Etain shook her head vehemently. “You think I know? I still don’t remember what happened!”

Cassandra let out an exasperated sigh, dissatisfied with her answer. Solas approached the breach, weaving his hand through the torrents of glowing energy as only a curious mage would. “Echoes of what happened here. The fade bleeds into this place”

Etain went to his side, following his intent, grim gaze. “this rift is not sealed” he continued. “but it is closed, albeit temporarily. I believe with the mark the rift can be opened, and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening it will likely attract attention from the other side”

“that means demons!” Cassandra cried out, drawing her sword. Stand ready!”

The scouts that had not already reached higher ground were falling into position at the seekers behest, weapons in hand and arrows knocked in their bows. Etain looked to Cassandra, who offered her a nod when everyone was prepared. 

She swallowed hard. Closing rifts was one thing, opening one however, seemed like a ridiculous and dangerous plan. But it was the only one they had, and she was forced to concede to Solas’ theory. 

She moved her hand upwards, slowly, and the green beam of light shot forth into the heart of the rift. It splintered and crackled, collapsing in on itself before ripping open a massive portal to the fade itself. Within mere seconds a humungous demon tore through it and bounded into their world, uttering a challenging roar to all those around it. Skin like iron, shoulders like small mountain peaks, horns twisted like thorns and eyes as numerous as its long, spiked teeth. Pride demon.

Cassandra cried out to the archers and their arrows reined down on it from behind. Hardly any of them stuck, but it was enough to draw its attention. As soon as it turned away from them they charged it. Solas and Varric tactfully kept their distance and provided powerful support with both magic and steel-tipped bolts, while she and Cassandra ducked and weaved around its heavy, earth-shaking blows and dug into it’s exposed flanks with their blades. Etain kept to its back, using her speed to keep it confused as she sliced at its vital points. The beast let out another thundering roar and its skin began to shimmer with renweed energy, rendering her blows useless. Cassandra kept its attention focused on her as she drew it back towards the wall, deflecting its armoured fists with her shield. “we must strip its defenses! Wear it down!”

Etain ceased her own assault and turned back towards the rift. If she could open and shut them, perhaps she could also weaken them enough to sap the demons strength. Without thinking, she let the mark do its work, only this time she wrenched her hand away from it mid-stream. The demons fade armour dissipated, leaving it stunned momentarily. It did not roar this time, but rather it howled loudly in pain, staggering backwards. She ducked under its legs and narrowly avoided its frantic flailing arms. It recovered its composure faster than expected, and with a devilish laugh, lighting erupted from its palms, forming a deadly trail across the area behind them. Lesser demons began manifesting around it, distracting the attention of the scouts that stood with them. With a snarl, she pushed back towards the rift and weakened it again. Each attempt was starting to sap her strength, but it was all she could do to even the odds. The pride demon continued its assault, though she could see it was growing weaker. Cassandra’s heavy defense was holding up well, and both Varric and Solas were shielded from its lightning behind a toppled chunk of the wall. She seized her chance and ran at it, leaping into the air and digging both of her blades into its back, using her own weight to drag them down through its tough skin. It screamed defiantly, unable to reach her with its clawed hands, shaking itself to remove her as she twisted her weapons inside the prominent wound. Finally its knees gave way and it fell forward, allowing her to detach herself. 

The rift crackled. Her hand crackled in response. Now it was time. 

The world slowed. 

The sounds of the others behind her, recovering from the fight, echoed distantly. She walked towards the Rift, palm outstretched. 

“Oh Falon’din. Lethvanin- friend of the dead…”

The mark connected with the rift. She focused the last of her strength to keep herself standing, the words of her prayers quiet on her lips as the world began to ripple. Her heart was beating so loud she could barely hear herself.

“Guide my feet. Calm my soul…”

Pain unlike anything she had ever felt before threatened to rip her physical being to shreds. Willing all the strength inside her into her efforts as the rift seemed to push back, she took a few more wobbling steps towards it, pushing it relentlessly as she grit her teeth. Suddenly, the rift shattered and melted out of existence, the beam of light that anchored the breach shooting back into the sky like an arrow, striking at its heart with an earsplitting crack. 

“Lead me to my rest.”

She fell, and the world around her disappeared into darkness before she even touched the stone floor.


	6. Destiny

Her wails echoed through the camp for hours, eclipsing the thunder of the torrential storm that raged around them. 

Karadhras Lavellan paced worriedly in front of the keeper’s aravel, listening to the labored cries of his beloved wife as she fought tirelessly to bring their child into the world. It had been hours since the labour had begun. The hunters had retreated to their tents when the rain grew too heavy, but the women were in a state of upheaval, running to and from the aravel with supplies in tow as the keeper requested. He gripped the pommel of his axe as he paced. The child was coming earlier than expected, and they had been caught off guard in the middle of their travels. The camp was not fortified enough, and far too exposed. The storm would also make it difficult to hear any approaching forces. The keeper often chastised him for his paranoia, but ever since he had learned that Maella was with child, he could not ease his worries. She, on the other hand, dealt with the situation beautifully. Maella was younger than him by at least ten summers, but he always knew her strength far outweighed his own. Even in the later months of her pregnancy she still managed to hunt without issue, and carry out her other duties even when her feet were swollen and their child kept her awake until the wee hours of the morning. The knowledge that she was carrying his child made his heart sing with joy to think that another creature of such willful, stubborn strength would enter the world.  
Her every cry of pain sent a pang of fear through him, though he knew such a thing was normal for a woman at this time. He wished he could be with her now, hold her hand and lend her his strength. Once or twice he had attempted to enter the aravel, only to be shooed off by the women who attended her. It was a mans place to stand guard while his woman gave birth, something he used to agree with vehemently. But the situation was different when it was his own wife and child.

His ears twitched. 

The guards at the mouth of the camp were shifting uncomfortably, unsettled by something in the distance, their bows already drawn. He stopped his pacing. Unable to move too far from the aravel, he called out to them.

“Something’s out there” one of them called back. “Heard footsteps when the thunder calmed, then it just disappeared”

Karadhras cursed under his breath. “Gods, rouse the others! Keep your eyes peeled for whatever- whoever- it is!”

He lifted the entrance flap and searched for the keeper. Deshanna was at his wife’s side, eyes shut in prayer as she mopped Maella’s sweaty brow with a warm cloth. “Keeper, something’s stalking the camp” he said levelly, his eyes falling to his beloved and her heaving chest. Her skin was pale, but her jaw was firmly set.

Deshanna snapped her head up at him, her mouth drawn into a frown. “She’s almost ready Da’len, but I cannot leave her side.”

Outside he heard the cries of the hunters, warning the others of an attack. His heart raced. Not now, not now of all times. “Maella, creators, stay strong. I will not let anything harm you, Vhennan” He cried out to her as he raced out into the open. 

Wolves. 

A huge pack of them raced through their camp with his hunters giving chase. He managed to count at least fifteen of them. Their chorus of howls now joined Maella’s cries. He ran at them with a furious shout, cleaving any that dared get too close to the aravel. His heartbeat drummed loudly in his ears. Wolves rarely attacked their camps, and even when they did, it was the halla they aimed for. The halla pens on the other side of the camp remained untouched, although the beasts were panicked and huddled together. No, these wolves were not here for their halla.  
They moved with unnatural speed, weaving past the young hunters who hastily scrambled to subdue them. They did not even turn on the hunters. 

They were trying to circle the aravel. 

“Form up!” He shouted frantically to the others. “Here!”

the other men responded quickly even in their panic. Their arrows reined down on the beasts, killing the majority of them. But for every wolf they put down, more emerged from the shadows. Abandoning their bows, they drew their blades and pushed back the assault. Karadhras felt the air turn ice cold. 

As the wolf numbers lessened, a huge lumbering alpha stalked towards him, bearing its teeth in an icy snarl. His grip on the axe grew so tight it whitened his knuckles. Long had their people lived with the tales of a beast like this, a beast that destroyed all semblance of joy and happiness with his evil ways. 

“You will not take her from me, Dread wolf!” he snarled back defiantly. “you will not take her!”

The wolf lunged forward, knocking the hunters around him to the ground. Another wave of smaller ones set upon them, distracting their attention as they fought to push them back. Karadhras sliced at the wolf, but it dodged his blow easily and made an attempt to move past him. It was not his life he wanted, after all. He would have none of it, grabbing at the black fur on its neck and driving his axe into its side. It howled at turned its teeth on him, biting into his arm deeply. He winced at the pain but would not give it the satisfaction of hearing it. Wrenching himself from its jaw, he dropped his axe, unable to efficiently take the weight of it without two good arms. He instead pulled the knife from his calf-sheathe. 

The thick hide of the beast was too thick to cut into unless he could land a proper blow to a weaker spot. He swallowed hard, backed against the aravel entrance. The black eyes of the wolf bore into his own. 

It lunged. 

He took a deep breath. 

His blade sliced through its neck and trailed down its stomach. Its dying howl echoed violently through the flatlands, entwined with another cry. 

The cry of his child.

The wolves were dead. The storm had broken. All of a sudden the world was quiet and peaceful, save for the beautiful sound of the child that had just emerged into the world.

He lay on the ground, panting wildly as he struggled to push the bloodied corpse of the wolf alpha off himself. Two of his hunters rushed to his aid, helping him to his feet. He thanked them, distantly, as he rushed with all his strength to the source of the sound.

Maella was sitting, surrounded by the clanswomen, face tired and drawn, but wonderfully peaceful. In her arms, a small wailing bundle swaddled in a warm blanket. He went to her side, slowly, afraid to make a sudden move that might disturb the peace of the dreamlike moment. She smiled at him, rubbing her head against his chest affectionately as she raised the child for him to see. 

His heart stopped.

A tiny little creature squinted up at him with soft violet eyes that matched his own.

“A girl” Maella said softly, stroking the little one’s soft silver hair. “A baby girl”

“Gods” he breathed, his voice cracking with emotion. “ she’s beautiful.”

It was some time before he could wrench his gaze from his newborn daughter, but the events of the night still weighed heavy in the back of his mind even now.

“Wolves, keeper” he said grimly, giving Deshanna a pleading look in the hopes she could inform him better on what had happened. “what does it mean?”

Deshanna bowed her head low. “wolves are the heralds of Fen’harel himself, their coming is perhaps a portent of destiny”

“For our child?” Maella asked, incredulously, holding their baby close to her chest protectively. 

“The dread wolf works in mysterious ways” she said, hands clasped on her lap. “He gives, just as he takes. This child was brought into this world just as the beast breathed its last.”

she looked up at them both, her eyes filled with the knowing wisdom of her long years. “she will know much sorrow in her life, this child. She will see war and chaos and betrayal, loss and fear. But she will endure.”  
Karadhras looked to his wife, eyes filled with renewed worry. “She is doomed to live a life of sorrow and suffering? this is to be the fate of our child?”

The keeper placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Take heart, Karadhras, all is not decided yet. She will forge her own path. But I have no doubt that a great destiny lies before her”

Maella nodded in agreement. Despite the keepers ruminations, she looked remarkably at peace with everything. Their daughter’s eyes were observing them all, seeming to find some strange amusement in the words she could not possibly understand. Karadhras lowered his head and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

The other women had quietly left during their conversation, and only the keeper remained. “She will need a name” She said softly, her features relaxing into a smile. 

“A good, strong name” Maella added, gently moving her into the keeper’s arms so she could receive her first blessing.

Deshanna looked to Karadhras. “Go and gather some of the beast’s blood”

He nodded, leaving his wife’s side for but a moment to perform the task. By some miracle none of the clan had suffered more than some minor injuries. The youngsters were already gathering up the smaller wolves corpses, but the alpha lay where it had fallen. He filled the small bowl the Keeper had given him with blood from its neck. In death, as it had been in life, it was a mighty beast, cunning and powerful. It was a hunters place to respect all the beasts of the world, even those who would harm their loved ones. Even if that beast were indeed an agent of Fen’Harel. 

Now that the storm was over the camp was alive and thriving with morning activity. Elders and youngsters alike were embracing him and offering loving congratulations, praising his bravery and the beauty of his child. Today, no man could be more relieved and delighted than he. The bonfire at the heart of the camp was lit and all were gathered around it. Karadhras helped his wife down the steps from the aravel and they went to join their clansmen. Although shaken by the nights events, all were relieved at the birth of another child, another to grow strong and protect the old ways.

“In the wake of chaos, behold!” Deshanna bellowed loudly, raising the swaddled form of his daughter high into the air. “A child is born unto us!Fen’Harel, the trickster, sent his dark agents to test us, but we did not relent to his cunning! This child, this daughter of the elvhen, came into this world not with a cry but a roar of victory!”

Their clansmen cheered. Deshanna lowered the child into a basket, one that Maella had woven weeks ago. She placed it in her arms and took the bowl of wolf blood from him. “A name, she needs, one for the strength she will one day grow into”

She dabbed at the blood with her fingertip, gently running it along the baby’s forehead, praying aloud to the creators to bless her with their virtues, joined by the chorus of their kinsmen. “What name will you give her?”

Karadhras looked to Maella and smiled. He knew she had one stored away in her mind. In all her female subtlety she had known it would be a daughter all along and kept the secret for herself.

“Etainiel, she shall be Etainiel!” She proclaimed loudly, and once more the clan cheered. 

Storm-born.

Karadhras snaked his arm around her waist and chuckled. “but we will call her Etain for now. Etainiel is perhaps too big a name for one so little”

They both gazed into the basket that held Etain’s sleeping form. What strange circumstances had lead to her birth, and yet the keepers foreboding words echoed within their minds, as it would for years to come. But for now, in this moment, their child was safe and unmarred by life’s cruelty. 

Creators willing, he would keep her safe from the sorrows that awaited her for the rest of his days.

He had no idea, at that time, of the sheer weight the keeper's words would truly hold.


	7. An Unexpected Offer

Overstuffed pillows, a crackling heath, a pounding headache. Creators, if this was Uthenera, Etain felt mightily disappointed.

She groaned, willing her eyes open, and found herself staring up at wooden rafters. No, this was not the afterlife, this was just a simple cabin. Once again she was left feeling uncommonly confused. She flexed her fingers, gripping at the soft bedspread beneath her as she observed her surroundings. At least she wasn’t bound this time, though she still felt the remains of the bruises on her wrists from before, a chilling reminder of the events that had transpired….hours, days, weeks ago?

The cabin door creaked open. Soft, Cautious footsteps prompted her to prop herself up on her elbows in order to observe their source. A young elf girl, carrying a box in her arms, completely oblivious to her gaze as she absently glanced around the room. She was short, and quite thin. Not lithe like a Dalish, but rather emaciated. Etain cleared her throat loudly, startling the girl enough for her to drop the box to the floor with a loud thud to accompany her shocked gasp. “Oh!” she backed away, her eyes wide with fear. “I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!”

Etain frowned, sitting upright as she regarded the flat-ear’s skittishness with disdain. “Is this another prison?”

The elfling shook shifted uncomfortably. “I…no? I mean I don’t think so”

“Then where am i?” she knew her sharp tone was only worsening the situation, given the way the youngster was visibly trembling now, but she was in no mood for pleasantries. “tell me!”

The flat-ear dropped to her knees then, her head bowed low. “I beg your forgiveness and your blessing. I am but a humble servant”

Etain swung her legs out of the bed and stood up shakily. “Blessing? Why are you…” she looked down at herself and noted, with shock, that she was not wearing the same clothes as she had been at the conclave. “ and who re-dressed me?!”

A whimper. She tutted irritably. “Child please, get off the floor”

The youngster slowly stood up, as though fearing that she would strike her if she dared to look her in the eye. “y-you are in Haven, Milady…”

“Haven?”

“They say you saved us. The breach stopped growin’, just like the mark on your hand. Not closed but…not worse I think.”

She raised her hand to eye level, inspecting the shimmering mark imbedded into her palm. The pain was gone, but the irritating hum of unnatural energy still thrummed beneath her skin. Stretching her fingers over the flat area enough times seemed to make the glow seep back inside her palm at least.

“I-it’s all anyone’s talked about for at least three days days” the girl said meekly. 

Etain quirked a brow at her. “they’re….pleased with me?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Breach is still in the sky but, stable I think. Well that’s what they say”

The elf stood for a moment, fiddling with her fingers awkwardly. She was used to seeing city elves behaving like this in front of shems, fearful of being punished for something they probably didn’t do in the first place. It occurred to her then that if her clothes had been changed (and she prayed it had been by a woman, at least. The thought of some rough-handed man laying a finger on her was spiking a pool of anger in her belly), her carefully concealed vallaslin were likely also now visible, as the skin-toned ichor she had used to conceal them was only meant to survive a day at best.

“Uhm…lady Cassandra will want to know you’ve wakened. “at once” she said”

“where is she now?”

“In the chantry, with the Lord Chancellor. “at once” she said.” And with that, she was running out the door, swinging it closed with a loud bang.

Etain sighed. She could never understand how city elves could be such fragile creatures. The cabin was small, and oddly cluttered. A raven sat on its perch in a cage on the floor by the window, regarding her with curiosity. She walked to the desk beside it, looking over the neatly stacked documents that covered it. Scraps of paper, medical reports and the likes, probably left by whichever healer had been attending her. She scanned the neatly-penned contents.

 

“Vain hope: someone better at this than me takes over before patient expires. Notes in case.

day one:

clammy, shallow breathing, pulse over-fast.  
Not responsive, pupils dilated.  
Mage says her mark is thrumming  
With unknown magic.  
Wish we could station a Templar here, just in case”

She rolled her eyes, tossing the paper aside. At least this time she wasn’t waking up in chains and surrounded by soldiers. There were plenty of them knocking around outside though, and she was hesitant to step out into the open air. Although she was not shackled, she wondered just how far her freedom extended. 

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door, very slowly, peeking out to better survey her surroundings. 

The sight before her was far from what she expected. 

Soldiers and commoners alike were gathered in neat clusters outside their shacks, and all eyes were on her. She felt exposed, too exposed, as she walked slowly through the crowd. No one spat at her, no slanderous comments nor obvious threats. The soldiers never reached for her blades and the commoners never shied away from her. Their eyes were…reverent. 

“its her, that’s the herald of andraste!”

She gulped. The what now? Were they talking about her?

She picked up her pace and was almost running up the stone steps towards the chantry building at the top of the village. 

“that’s her, she stopped the breach from getting any bigger”

she hurried into the building and shut the doors behind her, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of the almost empty hall. A pair of sleepy looking Templars were leaning against the wall, their watchful eyes peering at her from behind their ridiculously bulky helmets. Cassandra’s voice echoed from the room at the back of the Chantry, joined with that of the Chancellor. It was not difficult to discern the nature of the argument. Creators, these people seemed to do nothing but argue and battle. She pushed the door open, earning a momentary pause from both of them. Chancellor Roderick looked less than pleased to see her. 

“Chain her! I want her prepared for travel to the capital”

The Templars behind her moved a little hesitantly, pausing in the doorway and exchanging confused glances. Cassandra waved a hand at them. “disregard that, and leave us”

They retreated from the room with a salute and shut the door. Cassandra was leaning over the desk, pouring over a massive tome that lay open in front of her. Lelliana paced silently behind her, observing everything with an impassive expression. 

“You walk a dangerous line, seeker”

Roderick strode around the room as though he owned it, ridiculously pompous for a man who seemed about as respected as a bad itch. Etain leaned against the wall, narrowed eyes intent on unsettling him as much as possible, and it worked wonders. The man was all bark and no bite, hardly a considerable threat, she mused.

“the breach is stable, but it is still a threat.” Cassandra stated through gritted teeth. “I will not ignore it”

“So I take it I’m still a suspect then?” Etain interjected, certainly not surprised.

“You absolutely are” 

“No, she is not” Cassandra said firmly, giving her a stern nod.

“someone was behind the explosion at the conclave. Someone most holy did not expect. Perhaps they died at the conclave..” Said Lelliana, casting her eyes accusingly towards Roderick. “or have allies that yet live.”

“I am a suspect?” he gasped, mouth agape at her words.

“You, and many others”

He shot a hateful look towards Etain. “but not the prisoner?”

“I heard the voices in the temple. The divine called out to her for help”

“Her survival, that mark on her hand – all a coincidence?”

“Providence” the seeker exclaimed piously. “The maker sent her to us in our darkest hour”

Etain stood there, mouth hanging wide open with disbelief. “You do realize that im dalish, yes?”

“I have not forgotten” she replied steadfastly. “I will, however, not pretend you were not exactly what we needed, when we needed it.”

The very notion of being fate-touched by the shemlen god was absolutely sickening. She suddenly felt unclean at the very thought of it. These people were certainly grasping at straws if they thought she was some harbinger of their faith. Only a few days ago she was the savage heretic who murdered their beloved divine. 

“The breach remains, and your mark is still our only hope of closing it” Lelliana said pointedly. 

“this is not for you to decide” the chancellor growled. 

The seeker slammed the huge book in her arms down on the table hard, pointing at the prominent insignia on its cover. “you know what this is, Chancellor. A writ from the divine, granting us the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the inquisition reborn. We will close this breach, find those responsible, and we will restore order. With or without your approval”

All his pompous pride seemed to drain away alongside the colour in his cheeks as the seeker squared up to him, her finger firmly jabbing him in the chest as he backed against the wall. He gave Cassandra one last look of searing disapproval before marching out of the room like a spoiled child denied a sweet treat. 

Lelliana gazed at the tome for a long moment, before her head snapped up and she was staring intently at Etain. “this is the divine’s directive; rebuild the inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos. We aren’t ready, we have no leader and now, no chantry support”

“but we have no choice: we have to act now” the seekers gaze was now also focused on her. “With you at our side”

Etain looked from one woman to another, utterly lost for words. She wanted to refuse, walk out of Haven and never look back, go back to her clan and tell them of everything that had transpired, have the keeper study the mark, and fall back into her normal life. But it was a childish thought, she knew, for the consequences of leaving the breach unchecked were far too dire to ignore. As much as she was longing for home, the choice lay before her to do something much greater to ensure the safety of her family, a chance to show the world that the Dalish were honourable people who did not shy from the forces that threatened Thedas. 

She sighed, relenting to the reality of the situation. “I’ll stay, for now, until the breach is closed”

“that is all we ask” Lelliana smiled gratefully. 

Cassandra extended a hand to her then. “help us fix this before it is too late”

She nodded, extending her own hand in return and shaking hers firmly. 

Whatever the outcome, whatever the consequences, the choice was made. 

Etain had no appetite for politics, nor matters of shemlen faith. Standing with the inquisition would be a means to an end. Once the breach was closed, the threat quelled, no one would prevent her from returning to her clan. But for now, these people were allies, and that would take some time to process. 

 

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

News of the inquisition’s formation spread across the land like wildfire, carried on the wings of ravens. Some rejoiced at the prospect; a free army that stood for the people, a force to liberate the world from evil and corruption. Most simply saw a rebel army of heretics and fools who would bring ruin in their wake. Either way, the people of Thedas now knew of them, and all that had transpired following the destruction of the conclave. 

In the days that followed, they salvaged and prepared for what was to come. 

The one formally known as the prisoner, and likely assassin of the Most Holy, now held a new title; The Herald of Andraste. 

And she was just as unhappy about the title as those who called her their enemy.


	8. The War Room

“You’re Fidgeting again, Josie”

Josephine frowned, withdrawing her fingers from the edge of the table. She had a terrible habit of tapping her fingers against surfaces unconsciously when she was waiting on something. “Oh, sorry” she said meekly, rifling through the reports on her lectern. Lelliana grinned at her from across the room. “you seem rather anxious about this meeting” she said, and she was correct, of course. Nothing ever got past the Nightingale.

“I am a little, I suppose” she sighed. ”I’ve never met a Dalish before, I don’t want to cause any offence to the Herald”

“You won’t” Lelliana said gently, her gaze stuck on the door as she too awaited the Heralds arrival. “you are our ambassador for a reason Josie, the best of the best”

Josephine beamed at her. She was eternally grateful for Lelliana’s presence. She was always so sure of herself, and her confidence always made her feel more at ease. When she had approached her in the month prior to the events at the conclave with an offer to join the inquisition, Josephine had gladly accepted. They had been partners in crime once upon a time, and life had been dull for a long time when she had devoted herself to serving the Most Holy. Of course she was dedicated wholly to the Inquisition, but she was happy to be reunited with her old friend.

“So, if the Herald is Dalish…why was she at the conclave?”

Lelliana frowned, crossing her arms as she leaned idly against the bookshelf. “likely a spy. She certainly knew how to cover her tracks. We’ve not found any useful information on her apart from her clan name. it is likely she had no visible presence outside of her own kind.”

“No doubt her people have been affected by the war as well” she said, shaking her head as she rifled through her notes. “The Dalish do after all have a penchant for travelling, their routes have likely been disrupted as of late. I’m sure they were simply curious as to the outcome, as anyone would be.”

“Dalish elves live outside of chantry law. I should think they saw it as necessity to gain information by their own hand.”

Josephine, like most people, had heard many stories of the Dalish in her childhood. In antiva especially, they were regarded as highly dangerous vagabonds, and the rumours regarding their conduct and culture were nothing short of frightening. But as she grew into adulthood she had seen her share of volatile creatures. Court life was rife with sinister nobles and shocking barbarism at the best of times, all the while the pretense of propriety were always observed. She did her best to study all the cultures of Thedas, and concluded after a time that the Dalish could hardly be so evil as the chantry would have suggested. It was far more likely that they were simply a stark contrast to the buttoned down societies of humankind, and people did make such a needles fuss over things that were unusual. 

In truth, she was rather excited to meet the Herald. Tales of her exploits had spread like wildfire throughout Haven, though she herself had been far too busy dealing with the seemingly endless piles of paperwork that found their way onto her desk at some point or another, and knew only that she had withdrawn to her cabin after officially joining the inquisition, no doubt resting after her three-day fever(which, according to several gossiping chantry sisters, had left her on the verge of death). She had questioned Lelliana and Cassandra endlessly about her, but although they had met her, neither seemed to know a great deal about her. And of course, there was also Commander Cullen, who had apparently briefly seen her prior to her capture, though he was especially tight-lipped about the matter and unwilling to discuss it. She noted the particular grimness in his expression at the mention of it. Currently he was wearing out the stone floor pacing back and forth, surveying the expanse of the war table with the scrutinizing eyes of a tactician. He had been one of the first to join the inquisition, at Seeker Pentaghast’s request. Formally a Knight-captain in Kirkwall, he was an invaluable asset to their cause. The chantry’s destruction in Kirkwall was, after all, the beginning of the entire rebellion, and he had been at the heart of the fighting when the circles fell. Although he had been a Templar for most of his life, he did not join his brethren when they abandoned the chantry. Outside of the war room they rarely spoke, for he was generally a quiet man when not dealing with military matters, and busied himself attending to the training of his troops and the defense of Haven for the most part. He seemed pleasant enough, though he hardly ever smiled. 

Footsteps in the Hallway prompted her to straighten herself and take her place at the war table. She smoothed out the creases in her ruffled skirts with the back of her hand and cleared her throat, practicing the Dalish phrase she had learned the day before a few times under her breath. Cullen was suddenly attentive beside her, though he looked strangely anxious all of a sudden. 

Cassandra entered the small room with the Herald at her side. Josephine’s eyes were wide at the sight of her, as though the Seeker had brought with her an exotic foreign animal as opposed to their new ally. She had seen many elves in her time, residents of the alienages, servants and villagers usually, but the Herald was a stark contrast. She was tall and very lithe, the strange blue-inked markings on her forehead and cheeks accentuating her sharp, angular features. Her skin was a dusky colour, not as dark as her own but likely tanned from many years spent living out in the open air. Her bright, silver hair was remarkably long, pulled back into a neat braid bound in leather cord, extending down past the small of her back. Her large, almond shaped eyes shimmered like amethysts as they surveyed the room, and the black-grey ash smudges that encircled them made them look positively predatory. 

“Herald, may I present the war council of the Inquisition” Cassandra gestured towards her, and suddenly she wondered if she ought to bow. “This is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat.”

“Andaran atish’an” she said smoothly, hoping she had gotten the pronunciation right, for she had never heard more than a few words of elven spoken before. She was rewarded with a warm, surprised smile from the herald.

“You speak elven?” the Herald asked, incredulously. 

“You just heard the entirety of it im afraid” she admitted shyly. 

The Herald bowed her head to her respectfully, her severe expression softening to one of gratitude. “Ma serannas, my thanks”

Josephine made a mental note of the phrase, storing it away for use at a later date if necessary. The Dalish language sounded so beautiful, perhaps if she asked the Herald she might teach her a few phrases. When things were less chaotic of course. 

“Of course, you have met Sister Lelliana” Cassandra continued. “she is our spymaster. Her position requires a certain degree of subtlety, invaluable for gathering information”

“Tactfully put, Cassandra” Lelliana said appreciatively, a sly half-smile on her lips. 

“And this” Cassandra gestured to the commander, who stood to attention and cleared his throat awkwardly. “Is Commander Cullen, leader of the inquisitions forces.”

Had Josephine not been taught the finer points of observation through living at court, she might have been oblivious to the sudden change in the atmosphere. She noticed the way the Herald fixed her suddenly ice cold gaze upon the commander, and how his fingers worried at the pommel of his sword. Not a hostile action, she noted, but one of nervousness. He had a courteous smile plastered across his face, but the pleasantness in his expression did not meet his eyes. She watched the silent exchange with wonder, bewildered. It was like observing a beast caught in a hunter’s trap, afraid to make a sudden move. Now she was certainly intrigued as to what could have transpired prior to this to cause such an exchange, though it was unlikely she would ever know. It was a split-second moment, and it passed as swiftly as it had come about. 

“Such as they are” Cullen said coolly. “We lost many of our soldiers in the valley, and I fear many more before this is over”

The herald offered them a gracious nod, her face the picture of placidity now. She turned her gaze from the commander and looked to Cassandra. “with due respect, I take it there is a more pressing reason for my being here than simple introductions”

“Indeed” Cassandra nodded in agreement. “I mentioned that your mark needs more power in order to seal the breach for good”

“Which means we must approach the rebel mages for help” Lelliana said pointedly, eyeing the map where the iron marker over Redcliffe resided. 

“And I still disagree” Cullen said sharply. “The Templars would serve just as well”

The matter had been in debate for days now, and of course the former knight-captain’s former loyalties were clear. His argument was not particularly favourable to any of them. Even the seeker had her reservations about approaching the Templars. After they had openly abandoned the chantry, they had quickly earned a poor reputation for loyalty, regardless of their intentions. 

“We need power, Commander” Cassandra sighed. “enough magic poured into the mark might-“

“Might destroy us all. The Templars could suppress the breach, weaken it so-“

“Pure speculation” Lelliana interjected. 

“I was a Templar. I know what they’re capable of”

The Herald, who was leaning casually against the wall with her arms crossed as she observed the exchange, snorted with little amusement, shaking her head silently. Josephine didn’t have to wonder why. Historically, there had always been bad blood between Elves and Templars. She hoped for the commander’s sake that he was careful enough to remember that fact, and show the appropriate level of respect. The Herald had freely agreed to join the inquisition, and it would do none of them any good to earn her disdain. The mark on her hand was their only real method of closing the breach for good after all. 

“Unfortunately neither group will even speak to us yet” she reminded them all, and was pleased to see the oncoming debate quelled before it truly became heated. “The chantry has denounced the Inquisition, and you, herald, especially”

The Herald shrugged. “naturally”

“Some of them are calling you- an elf- the herald of Andraste. That frightens the Chantry. They call it blasphemy, and we heretics for harbouring you”

“Chancellor Roderick’s doing, no doubt” The seeker sighed sharply. 

“It limits our options. Approaching the mages or the Templars for help is out of the question for now.”

“Just how am I the Herald of Andraste?” The Herald asked, and the title fell from her lips as though she were spitting out something with a bad taste. 

“People saw what you did in the fade, how you stopped the breach from growing” Cassandra reminded her. “They have also heard about the woman seen in the rift when we found you…they believe that was Andraste.”

“Even if we tried to stop the rumours from spreading-“

Cassandra raised a hand to silence Lelliana. “Which we have not”

“Quite the title, isn’t it?” Cullen remarked with a half-smile. “How do you feel about that?”

Oh, but it was all too apparent, and a pointless question to ask. The Herald looked far from impressed, and when she turned her gaze to him again, her dark expression made that highly evident. “Unnerved” she said quietly. “it is not something im inclined to believe”

“I’m sure the Chantry would agree” 

“People are desperate for a sign of hope. For some, you are that sign” Lelliana said assuredly. 

“And to others, a symbol of everything gone wrong” Josephine reminded them. 

“Yet the chantry have no force to back them” The Herald remarked nonchalantly, her lips twisting into a subtle sneer. “Now that their “loyal” Templars have abandoned them”

Josephine didn’t need to look at Cullen to know he was bristling at the scathing tone behind that comment. “And yet, they may bury us with them” she said ruefully. 

“There is something we can do” Lelliana offered optimistically. “A chantry cleric by the name of mother Giselle has offered to speak with you. She is not far, and knows those involved far better than I. her assistance could be invaluable.”

The Herald pushed herself from the wall and gave her a nod. “I’ll speak with her, then, if it helps.”

“You’ll find Mother Giselle tending to the wounded in the Hinterlands near Redcliffe” Lelliana said, pointing to the marker on the map. “ and of course there may be other opportunities within the area to expand the inquisitions reach”

“In the meantime we ought to explore other options” Cassandra said as she scanned the expanse of the map thoughtfully. “I will not leave this all to the Herald.”

And with that, the meeting had concluded. Cassandra lead the Herald from the room, and the three of them were left to deal with the details of their decision. Beside her, the Commander let out a long sigh, his shoulders relaxing.

“The Herald seems quite nice” Josephine said sweetly, breaking the silence that had quickly enveloped the room. 

“According to Cassandra, she’s a very proficient fighter as well” Lelliana said as she penned a report for the scouts that would be entering Redcliffe. “I think she will be an asset to the cause, provided we can bolster her popularity with the people”

“I’m not so sure that will be an easy task” Cullen muttered, moving his soldier markers into place in the area that represented Haven. “She certainly made a colourful impression on my men during her imprisonment”

Lelliana rolled her eyes at him and tutted. “You know decidedly little about the Dalish, Commander.”

Cullen’s brow quirked. “I do, but I hardly see how that matters”

“My point exactly” she said in her enigmatic way, the one that usually seemed to frustrate him to no end. And before he could reply to that, she was gone from the room, and he merely sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, putting the remaining unused markers back into the leather bound chest on the floor.

“I ought to return to my men” he said shortly, his tone almost a growl of frustration.

“very well” she said worriedly. “Though, Commander….it would be prudent to hold some empathy towards the Herald at this time. It cant be easy for her to be thrown into all of this so suddenly.”

He stood for a moment in the doorway, and looked at the floor. “You’re probably right” he said thoughtfully, and Josephine could have sworn for the briefest moment that it was regret that she saw etched into his drawn, youthful features before he abruptly headed for the open air. 

Josephine made a note to keep an eye on their interactions for a while, feeling sure it would be something worthy of careful observation.


	9. Kind Words

As soon as The Seeker had left to attend her own duties, Etain took the opportunity to survey Haven’s resources. She was unused to walking through a human settlement with such freedom, but it was not entirely unpleasant. Now that the initial shock and awe had passed, the people here had gone back to their work and barely seemed to notice her, save for a few whispers and curious, sideways looks, which made her feel rather like an unusual animal lumbering through the streets. Not regarded as a threat, but still different enough to earn attention.   
Cassandra had been rather insistent on requisitioning a set of armour for her as well as new weapons, but she had politely refused. She was currently dressed in a rather itchy, ill fitting tunic and trousers, but she would deal with obtaining something much more reliable when there were less prying eyes about.   
As she walked along the cobbled steps towards her cabin, she spotted Varric kneeling by a newly-lit fire. He looked up at her with a wide grin as she approached, and gave the area a once-over glance. 

“So, now that Cassandra’s out of earshot, you holding up alright?” He asked concernedly, a hint of casual amusement accompanying his question. “I mean you go from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful. Most would have spread that out over more than one day”

“Im glad someone else finds it strange” she replied, feeling somewhat touched by the Dwarf’s truthful kindness. “but I have no intention of counting myself amongst the ranks of the faithful, I’ll just stand next to them I suppose”

Varric let out a hearty laugh. “I guess that’s one way to think of it” he cast his eyes up to the sky, where the breach still thundered out its hungry call in the distant mountain range. A dull sound, but a reminder of its threat. “For days now we’ve been staring at that breach, watching demons and maker-knows-what fall out of it. “Bad for morale” would be an understatement. I still cant believe anyone was in there and lived”

She frowned, snapping her gaze away from the breach before the willful mark in her hand decided to act up again. “the sooner it’s sealed the better”

“I take it there’s more than a hint of homesickness in that statement?”

“Of course” She said staunchly. “This “Herald” title can only last so long before people start scrutinizing the flaws behind it and remember what I really am.”

“A charming young lady?” He offered jokingly, and she couldn’t help but laugh. 

“you know what I mean”

“Oh I do” He sighed, making a subtle gesture towards the heavy wooden gates at the base of the steps in front of them. “You might want to consider making a run for it at the first opportunity. I’ve written enough tragedies to know where this is going. Heroes are everywhere, but with that hole in the sky? We’re gonna need a miracle”

“I’ve thought about it” she said quietly, frowning. “I know I don’t belong here. But I have to try and close it, for my clan’s sake”

Varric looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, a sly smile tugging at his lips as he leaned closer to her. “Ah don’t worry, at least youre not the only oddity around here” he whispered, pointing to the cabin at the far end of the slope where Solas was standing, peering across the expanse of the ice fields. “You, me and Chuckles over there could start a club, call it “The non-human union”. Whenever we end up setting out for Redcliffe, we’ll make it our duty to poke fun at the Seeker for being the odd one out.”

And this time Etain could not suppress the loudness of the laugh that erupted from her throat. Varric really did have a wonderful way of making her feel better, and she was truly grateful for his kind efforts to lift her spirits. 

“That would certainly be something to behold” she said, shaking her head at the thought of it. “Thank you, Varric. I’m glad to have someone to talk to around here”

“Any time, “Herald”. You know where I am if you need me”

She took her leave of him then, and wondered if perhaps her stay in Haven would perhaps turn out to be less of a strain than she anticipated with someone like Varric around.


	10. Reunited

It was late in the evening when word was sent from the Hinterlands regarding the chaos that was unfolding in the region. Templars and Mages had established footholds all across the area, and Redcliffe was in a state of disarray. Lelliana’s scouts were thorough, and careful not to leave a single detail out of their report. A messenger arrived at her cabin with a copy of the missive in hand. Etain looked at the parchment, brow furrowed at the unnecessary level of formality these people displayed. The chantry was but a five minute walk from her temporary residence, surely one of them could have just told her in person?  
She scanned the contents of the page and gave the messenger a nod of understanding, and the young lad gave her a low bow before departing. According to the hasty scribbles at the bottom of paper, they were due to leave at dawn. She assumed the note was left by Cassandra.  
She peered out at the near empty streets. From the sounds of it, most of the soldiers were in the Tavern or likely retired to their quarters(which, at the moment, were no more than hastily strung-up tents outside the main gate). The only ones that remained were the guardsmen posted on the walls, and a few servants who were groggily making their way back to their own dwellings after a long days work.   
Now was the perfect opportunity to take a walk. After all, she had a dear old friend to meet.  
She slinked out of the village with ease. She had supposed there would be some questions from the nearby guards as to where she was going, but they kept a respectful distance and merely gave her a questioning look as she passed them by. The night air was cold, but it never truly sank into her skin. She had spent her life wandering in the free marches, which was predominantly comprised of the northern mountain ranges that just about made contact with the Frostbacks. Apart from the summer months, the clan stuck to the mountain trails, where the only human settlements were generally quite small and unassuming. They were not so remiss about the idea of trading with the Dalish, for they could find resources the shemlen craved in the long winters and dared not search for themselves, and their needs wisely overlapped any disdain they might have for her kind for the most part.   
Once she had walked a decent distance from Haven, she began the familiar task of tracking, searching for the distinct prints of the one she was seeking. She clicked her tongue a few times, occasionally uttering a sharp whistle when the wind let up enough for the sound to travel a better length. Asfaloth would have tracked her scent from a distance, and she had not left him too far from the Temple when they had parted.   
After a while passed and there was no response, she gave a sigh and knelt on the slope, giving another piercing whistle.   
Silence surrounded her for a time, and she merely sat filled with worry, praying he had not been harmed by the demon incursion.   
The sound of thundering hooves dismantled her worries in an instant, and she leapt to her feet and turned just in time to see her beloved Hart crashing through the tree scape with a bellowing grunt.   
“Asfaloth!” she cried with relief, rushing to him and throwing her arms around his thick, muscular neck when he finally pulled to a stop.   
There were dry patches of blood running across the tips of his massive antlers, half hidden beneath the debris he had just accumulated in his excitement. Black blood, meaning demons. She frowned, pulling his long snout upwards to look him in the eye. “You should have run when they came” she said in a gently reprimanding tone, and he merely snorted and butted her in the face in response. She grinned and nuzzled against his shaggy fur, overwhelmed with relief to see her beloved companion again.  
Asfaloth was a gargantuan stag, so large that she could not easily mount him without him first kneeling on the ground. Like most stags, he chose his rider, and when she was only 10 it was she who he had teetered towards from the halla pens on shaky, thin legs, no more than a newborn fawn back then. Stags were not something the Dalish had in large supply, but the Lavellan’s prided themselves on maintaining the old ways of the halla riders, an art lost to most of the other clans, the keeper once told her. The does were broad enough, but much shorter than the males of their kind, though a great deal more elegant, and still perfectly capably of taking the burdens of the Aravels.   
She and Asfaloth had been thick as thieves since those days, and it was no wonder he hadn’t fled when the fighting began. There was an unbreakable loyalty between both of them, that of ranger and companion. He had been the first beast she had formed a bond with, and though other creatures had warmed to her, and she to them, Asfaloth was her most cherished friend. He was as willful and stubborn as she, and he had thrown her from his back on more than one occasion when she had first attempted to ride him. She never held it against him though, he was merely teaching her in his own strange way.   
“I see you kept my supplies safe” she said appreciatively, noticing the saddlebag on his back, covered over with dark cloth, still undisturbed. “Ma Serannas, Lethalin”  
she unhitched his saddle and placed it on the ground, and he grunted happily before proceeding to roll in the fresh snow, washing the sweat from the dip in his back where the saddle had been residing for longer than it should have been.  
The saddle had been made especially for long journeys, with many straps and fastenings to keep her effects safe when she was forced to abandon them for simpler, less noticeable trappings. She pulled out her armour and unfolded it carefully, examining it with pride. The light tan lamellar leathers were a welcome sight, as was her comfortable loose undershirt and fitted boots. She was quick to throw off the itchy shirt she had woken up in the day previous and dress herself in the comforts of home.   
When she was done with the fastenings, she lifted the flap on the underside of the saddle, and smiled fondly at the comforting sight of her beloved blades, bound in a length of leather and cord. As soon as she held them in her hands, she felt complete, relishing their lightness and familiarity above anything else.   
“it has been too long” she sighed contentedly as she fixed them into her belt sheathes, listening for their distinctive ring as the metal made contact with the solid wood that encased them.   
She clicked her tongue, and Asfaloth was on his feet again, plodding towards her inquisitively. She smiled, tenderly running her fingers through his shaggy roan coat . “We can’t go home just yet” she whispered forlornly. “we have things to attend to here”  
His large, emerald eyes regarded her with gentle interest. She rubbed her nose against his snout. “don’t worry, Lethalin” she said assuredly. “once the threat has passed, we’ll go back to the clan, and put all of this behind us”  
Asfaloth grunted, understanding the weight in her words. She gave him a pat and gestured for him to follow. He trotted along beside her as they made their way back to Haven. There she would leave him to roam about outside the gates, for he was far too proud to be stabled with the horses inside.   
She made a mental note to inform someone about his presence, lest they presume him to be a danger. Or worse, try to approach him. Asfaloth was notoriously intolerant of shems.  
After her stint in prison, she could hardly blame him.


	11. Warnings

It was late in the evening when Cullen finally set his paperwork aside. The handfuls of new recruits that had been arriving in Haven over the last two days were a glad sight to most, but each one was another strain on his patience.  
During his years serving as a knight-captain in Kirkwall, he had trained his fair share of Templar initiates, and in hindsight, it not been a particularly difficult task. Most -if not all of them- had been raised in the chantry and taught the finer points of discipline and swordsmanship, and they responded well to the chain of command.  
The inquisition’s forces, however, were raw. The majority of them were barely trained for any real combat; generally coming from farming backgrounds where the only use for a sword was to shoo off wolves or the occasional bandit. They had either joined out of faith or the promise of a decent living. He, of course, was a man of faith himself, but it took more than a strong belief in the maker to make a difference on the battlefield.  
There were some decent warriors amongst them at least, but not enough satisfy him. He had been sorely disappointed with the skittishness his men had displayed during the demon incursion that followed the conclaves destruction. Aside from being a decidedly shameful display, it had resulted in a regrettable amount of deaths. Ever since that day, he had been drilling them relentlessly.  
Now that the Inquisition had been formally established, he could not afford to lead anything less than a formidable force. He would mold them into a true army, even if the workload drove him into the ground.  
He cast a thoughtful glance across the room, to where his trusty shield lay propped against the wall next to the fireplace of his cabin. He had been neglecting his own longing to practice in the training yard in favor of keeping a sharp eye on his men during the daytime hours. Although he was already feeling rather run down, he would sleep with more ease after a stint of exercise.  
Grabbing his shield, he headed out into the cold nighttime air and made for the gates, thankful for the warmth of his fur mantle and thick leathers. Growing up in Ferelden had given him an exceptional tolerance for rain, but snow was not his forte. He had initially suffered from a few sneezing bouts when he had first arrived at Haven, and the headaches soon followed. It had done nothing for his patience.  
He could hear the soldiers in the Tavern, no doubt immersing themselves in an all-night drinking session, despite his warnings. Again. Tomorrow he would make sure to have them running laps around the hillside at dawn.  
At least the gate guards were looking sharp as they paced the walls. Haven’s defenses weren’t exactly remarkable, but they would do for the time being. Before the inquisition had established themselves here, it was no more than a village, used mainly as a pilgrimage for the faithful after the blight.  
He was thankful for the silence that fell upon the encampment outside the walls. As commander of the inquisition forces, his most predominant duties were tactical planning and training. There was little time in between for the solitude he sometimes found himself longing for.  
His training routine had remained unchanged for many years now. He would practice his careful footwork, keeping his shield at the familiar tilted angle that was best utilized against mages, and land a carefully timed strike at the vital points of the training dummy that currently served as his enemy. It was as fluid to him as breathing at this point, and his experience of open battle had taught him the difference between simple practice and true warfare.  
He practiced the motions for some time, before a veritable chill crept up his spine. 

He was being watched. 

He turned quickly, and very nearly jumped out of his own skin.

The Herald was standing but a few feet from him, her fingers wrapped tightly around the weapon that lay strapped to her side, head cocked slightly to one side, observing him. Her eyes were wide, not with fear, but vigilance. For a moment, he thought she meant to draw her blade against him and attack, but realized her preparedness was merely a reaction to his own sword, which was stupidly raised in a manner that suggested hostility. 

“Makers breath” he exclaimed, lowering his weapon instantly. “Apologies, Herald, I didn’t hear you approach!”

As soon as he relaxed, her hand left the hilt of her blade and went to her side. Her sudden appearance left his heart hammering in his chest. Her strange, silver hair was as vibrant as moonlight, giving her a fearfully ethereal appearance, only accentuated by the bright glow of her hard, lilac eyes. He had a keen sense of hearing; how had she managed to approach with such ghostly silence?

“I did not mean to startle you, commander” she said levelly, the picture of placidity as she set her hard gaze upon him. 

It took him a moment to register the difference in her appearance since the meeting in the war room, when she had been dressed in only light, ill fitting clothing. Now, she was shockingly well armoured, and armed. The fitted lamellar she wore now looked strong, but light, accentuating the lithe yet muscular form it protected. The cloth belt tied at her waist held two blades; one resembled a longsword, but its distinct curve was unlike anything he had seen before in a weapon. The sharp, lengthy prong that curved out from the hilt just above the sheathe that encased it was likely made for shield-trapping, he surmised. The second blade was shorter, fixed in to a fur-clad back-sheathe. 

He felt sure none of it was obtained within Haven. It was too foreign, and while it was not particularly elaborate, it was well cared for. He was seriously wondering where it had come from now.

“Ir abelas, I have disturbed your practice” she said, breaking the silence that passed during his observation with a tone that was almost reprimanding. 

He shook his head, lowering his eyes to the ground. “yes…I mean, its no trouble”

Maker, was this truly the same woman he had encountered in the dungeons?  
He remembered the wild, dangerous creature that had slammed herself against the bars of her cell and spitting her foreign curses at him. It was a fearsome display, one that had rattled him far too much for comfort. The elf that stood before him was a paragon of quiet reservation and dignity. She was calm, too calm, and that in itself was worrying enough. He recalled the soldiers still recovering from their injuries, the ones she had left with expertly broken bones during her confinement.  
When she had entered the war room that day, he half expected she would lunge across the table and gladly strangle the life from him. The look in her eyes had darkened like a storm cloud at the mere sight of him. 

She had remembered his words. Of course she had. He remembered them too.

He had called her a savage. Beneath the matted hair that had covered her face lay the distinct tattooed marks of a Dalish elf, and in his frustration he hadn’t even noticed. He had simply assumed her to be an alienage resident; her garb suggested as much. Now he felt the true weight of that single word. He certainly hadn’t intended it to be applied as some sort of racial slur.

He rubbed the back of his neck, wishing suddenly that he possessed Ambassador Montilyet’s gift of diplomacy. Beyond that which pertained to his duties, he was terrible with words. And as the Ambassador had so clearly reminded him, it would do none of them any good to earn the Herald’s disdain, not when they needed her mark. For the sake of diplomacy, he had to at least try to amend the situation. “Herald, I…” he began, clearing his throat, his tone formal. “I…trust that you find Haven agreeable?”

She gave the village a thoughtful glance, scrutinizing the walls fortifications. “well enough”

“I am glad to hear it” he said, half-heartedly. he wracked his brain for something to say, something that might smooth over the painfully obvious tension that rippled through the air, suppressed only by the weak pleasantries he provided and the eerie stillness of the Elf. “I….wanted to apologize for…well, my behavior when we first met was…ungallant, to say the least.”

The Herald turned back and peered at him. Her eyes were sharp, but there was a strange curiosity within her gaze. “I am used to such preconceptions” she said flatly, clearly knowing exactly what he spoke of. “I have come to expect them from your kind.”

“From Humans?” he asked, feeling a small pang of guilt. He truly held no disdain for elves, having lived in the circle for so long, where many elves came from the alienages and studied alongside human kind. Elves that assaulted his men were a different story, however, regardless of the situation. 

She nodded. “Apologies are wasted on me, commander. I know my worth here, and it is not defined by anything beyond the mark on my hand.”

Despite the evenness of her tone, there was a sense of bitterness in those words. 

“I did not mean to imply-“

“it is no implication” she cut him off mid-sentence, her words firm. “it is a truth, and I do not question it. I am much aware of the dangers the breach, and am glad to have an asset that may aid in ending such a threat. For the sake of my people”

To his surprise, she smiled. It was not a particularly kind one, but one of quiet amusement. No doubt in response to the look of utter confusion on his face. She was entirely unreadable, entirely foreign to him, and everything about her had an enigmatic sense about it; exactly as she meant it to. 

Without warning, her blade was unsheathed, and it sang with the sound of expertly refined metal as it sliced through the air. 

His heart stopped. The blade’s tip just barely missed his cheek, making him flinch at the near contact. He heard a thud, and behind him, the straw-stuffed head fell to the ground. 

The Herald had barely moved, though her shoulders were tense as she held the blade outstretched, separating them with steel. Her expression hadn’t changed in the slightest, still as passive a smile as it had been moments ago, her eyes never leaving his.

He swallowed hard, shocked by what had just transpired, and utterly unable to speak, or to move. 

“Know this, Commander” With an artful flick of her wrist, the blade was sheathed once more. “I am a free woman. I will not brook the dishonor of being chained again.”

She left him then, turning on her heels, her immensely long braid swinging across the small of her back, and only when she reached the gates of the village did Cullen let himself breathe once more.


	12. First Dawn

The village was alive with activity before dawn light had even crept its way over the mountain slopes. For a brief moment, Etain wondered if she were home, her ears twitching at the sound of water pails splashing on the cobblestones, until the unevenness of the bed she lay upon reminded her how far away from that life she was. How shems spent their nights sleeping in such things was beyond her, for it lacked the firmness of a good sleeping mat that she was accustomed to. It left her back feeling far too lax, and she pushed herself off the straw mattress and onto her feet so she could stretch out the unwelcome knots at the base of her spine.   
She dressed quickly and headed out into the streets, where the labourers who passed by her hesitantly bowed their heads as they hurried passed. Creators, if her clansmen could see her now, they would be shocked beyond belief, almost as much as she was.   
The sun was just coming up when she climbed the slope that jutted out from behind the chantry building. It was an empty spot, prettily adorned with fresh winter herbs that poked out from the snow, one of the few spots undisturbed by any tracks but her own. And it was wonderfully quiet, exactly what she needed.  
Ever since she received her valaslin, morning meditation had been an everyday practice. It was a warriors way, to sit in contemplation and centre oneself before the events of the day. The “Vir’atishan”, it was called; the way of peace, for every warrior needed to know peace to free themselves from the constraint of pain and anger. “It is always best to face the day with a clear mind, Da’len” her father once said. “Lest your actions become ungainly and compromised. It is what separates us from the shems.”  
She knelt in the snow and placed her sheathed blade across her lap, her back straight as an arrow. She bowed her head, breathing deeply, evenly as she prepared to mentally recite her creed:

Oh Sylaise, keeper of the hearth,  
Still my heart with your peaceful art,  
All-mother, Mythal wise and fair,  
Soothe my anger with your loving air,  
Andruil, huntress, guide my arm,  
Protect me, keep me safe from harm,  
Ghilan’nain, pathfinder, keep me true,  
Show me the roads known by but few….

She remained poised, silent, for some time. The world around her trickled away and left her basking in the welcome radiance of the morning sun. She felt at peace, and even the hum of energy that thrummed beneath her skin, dormant and unseen like a coiled snake, did not diminish it.   
It was not until she heard footsteps that she opened her eyes. They were light and effortless, and she needn’t have turned to know who it was.   
“Ir abelas” came the voice of Solas from behind her, gentle as a passing breeze. “I hope I have not disturbed your meditation”  
She raised her head and gazed out at the mountainside, where the pale red of dawn clashed with the sickly green of the breach. “you are familiar with this art?”  
He gave a light chuckle. “oh yes, of course. I practice it myself, though I did not think to see it in one who does not train in the ways of magic”  
Slowly, she rose to her feet, gently placing her sheathe in its usual place. She turned to him and gave him a thoughtful look. “it is Vir’ atishan. Peace is not limited to mages”

“Indeed” he agreed, his gaze one of curiosity, and surprise. “I suppose you are right, but I have seen few who carry a blade hold any such reverence for the ideals of the peaceful mind. Many see anger and rage as a way to bolster their prowess”

“I believed that for a time, when I was young” she admitted with a frown. “it took much time to realize its worth.”

“No doubt, the young are always hot-blooded” he said assuredly. “Though I cannot imagine you could be so old even now”

“Twenty-two Winters” 

Solas leaned against the tree beside him, a peaceful smile crossing his lips. “young, indeed, to be thrown into such dire circumstances.”

There was silence for a moment, wherein she simple stared at him, this mysterious and softly spoken elf who was neither a flat-ear nor a Dalish. Since their first meeting she had wondered much about his origins. “where do you come from, Solas?”

“Oh, a place of no consequence” he said, nonchalantly. “just a small village, barely noticeable on any map. I left to hone my skills in magic as soon as I was old enough to travel, and have been travelling ever since.”

“You have been alone in that time?”

“at times, but not always.”

“You had companions?”

He smiled wistfully, as a Haren would at the questions of a young child, she thought. “Of a sort, yes.”

He had fully obtained her interest now, and she found herself enjoying their exchange and the curiosity it peaked. She wanted to discuss it further, but before she could press him further with questions, he gestured towards the village, reminding her of the duties that still needed attending to. “shall we? I believe the seeker desires a quick departure to the Hinterlands”

She nodded, begrudgingly, storing away her questions for a later time, and they headed back towards the Chantry, where the seeker was likely waiting impatiently for their small unit to muster. 

 

“Maker, what is that…beast?”

Etain smiled, patting Asfaloth’s neck as Cassandra craned her neck to observe him, hesitant to come any closer in case he charged from the looks of it. 

“You have not seen a Hart-stag before?” she asked innocently, her brow quirking with amusement as the stoic Seeker did her best not to look rattled. 

“I have heard of them” she said flatly. “I did not think they were so…large. Is it dangerous?”

“Not unless he feels threated” she shrugged, cinching the saddle strap tightly. “His name is Asfaloth. He is my best and most trusted friend.”

Cassandra furrowed her brow in confusion, but said no more on it as she checked the saddle of her lazy looking horse. The shemlen did not treat their horses as equals, but as servants. Wild horses were majestic creatures, but once they had been tamed, “broken in” as they called it, that spark that made them so beautiful dissipated entirely. 

With a click of her tongue, Asfaloth lowered himself to the ground until he was in a kneeling position, his legs tucked neatly beneath his belly. She swung her leg over him and adjusted herself in the saddle, giving him a pat when she was comfortably seated, and he rose once more to his feet. It was a glorious feeling, being back in the saddle. She needed no bridle to steer Asfaloth, for he responded naturally to the way she tensed her legs at his flanks, and the gentle clicks of her tongue when she was prompting his direction.   
Solas and Varric both mounted their own horses, and she resisted the chuckle that bubbled in her chest at the sight of the poor dwarf struggling to gain footing on his own mount.

“Redcliffe is only a few hours away” Cassandra remarked when they were all ready to leave. “There will no doubt be a fight awaiting us, considering the results of the report”

“I think we’ll manage with a walking siege machine on our side” Varric gestured at Asfaloth, who tossed his head impatiently, longing to set out on a proper ride. 

Etain gave a little laugh, urging her beloved hart onwards, followed at a slight distance by the others. 

Her laughter died out at the sight of a familiar figure walking from the training grounds; Commander Cullen. She brought Asfaloth to a halt, giving the man an appraising look. His armour was ridiculously polished, glinting in the morning light beneath the dark fur cloak that fanned out around his shoulders like a mane. He bowed his head. “Herald” he said coolly, eyeing her mount much the same as Cassandra had, and at the same distance. “our…soldiers have gone ahead to help with the relief effort, and the scouts have made a base camp in the clearing nearby. Look for a dwarven scout named Harding when you arrive, she can brief you on the situation.”

His statement seemed more directed at Cassandra than her, but she nodded nonetheless. She felt her Hart’s flanks tense. He uttered a disdainful snort and pounded his hoof against the snow. Asfaloth was reacting to her distrust for the commander. “Hamin, Asfaloth, Hamin” she whispered, smoothing her fingers over his neck before he gored the man with his dangerously sharp antlers.   
The commander shot her a sharp glance before taking a step back, out of the path. “At any rate” he said warily. “good luck, you’re going to need it.”

“Aneth’ara, Commander” she said distantly, eager to leave before her words dissolved into less kind ones. “Hunt well”

Asfaloth broke into a canter at her urging, and they made for the bridge that would lead them to Redcliffe at good speed.

As she rode, Etain could not help the smile that crossed her lips, remembering the previous night, and the look of sheer horror on the commanders face as her blade whispered its sweet song not even an inch from his cheek. 

She had no intention of striking him with it, and it was merely a show of skill, one to establish her place here as one of her own choosing. He didn’t need to know that, of course. 

It was a childish thing to take pride in, but it was a triumph nonetheless.


	13. A Good Example

Their approach to the forward outpost was met with the distant clamor of mass conflict. The sounds of battle rang out from all sides, like dreadful whispers in the cool air. As the encampment came into view, Etain brought Asfaloth to a slow trot and surveyed her surroundings. She sniffed the air, and the coppery tang of blood filled her nostrils. Gods knew how much blood was being poured into the earth by the senseless fighting of mages and Templars. She had seen enough of them over the last few months, dotted across Thedas like a growing plague. It made travelling a difficult thing, and trade near impossible. Her clan had been holed up in the mountains when she departed, strategizing the next course of action. It was a good place for those wishing to avoid the conflict of civil wars, but an unfortunately good place for rebels to trek when they sought sanctuary. And when the rogue mages came, the Templars followed in pursuit of their prey, tearing up the land with their inconsiderate, desperate hunt.   
A dwarven woman knelt by the trees next to the path, surveying the land below with hawk-like diligence. Soldiers posted nearby patrolled the road, and shuffled up the slope as Etain and her companions approached.   
“The Herald of Andraste!” the young dwarf exclaimed, scrambling to her feet suddenly. “I’ve heard the stories, everyone has. We know what you did at the breach. Its odd for a Dalish elf to care what happens to anyone else, but you’ll get no backtalk here, that’s a promise.”  
Etain frowned at the awe in the woman’s words, not to mention the loudly apparent formality at the mention of her race that suggested a previous dislike to her kind. She wondered for a moment whether there had been some sort of briefing on the matter of behavior around elves from the ambassador. It was not a thought she relished.   
“Inquisition Scout Harding, at your service” she said with an awkward bow. “I – all of us here – we’ll do whatever we can to help”  
“Thank you” she returned, peering through the trees at the smoke that was rising in the distance, billowing through the air like a signal fire. “What is the situation in the Hinterlands currently?”  
“We came to secure horses from Redcliffe’s old horsemaster” she said informatively, her expression troubled. “I grew up here, and people always said Dennet’s herds were the fastest and the strongest this side of the Frostbacks. But with the fighting getting worse, we couldn’t get to Dennet. Maker knows if he’s even alive. Mother Giselle’s at the crossroads, helping refugees and the wounded. Our latest reports say the war’s spread there too. Corporal Vale and our men are doing their best to protect the people, but they wont be able to hold out very long. You’d best get going.”  
“Ma Serannas” she said with a nod, not feeling particularly sure of what to else to say. These formal addresses were odd to her, and not something she was getting used to.   
They moved on, down the winding path that lead to the crossroads. Etain observed the corpses littered throughout the area, those of both Templars and mages. Scorch marks and blood smears became more predominant the further they travelled, as did the rising thrum of battlecries and clashing blades.   
At the mouth of the pass, she observed the carnage before her for but a moment before her fingers twisted around the hilt of her blade. “Shem’sahlin!”  
Asfaloth responded to her cry with a thundering gallop. Both sides of the rebellion were charging headlong into the small settlement ahead, seemingly oblivious to the defenseless villagers that could only flee in fear.   
“Inquisition forces!they’re trying to defend the refugees!” Cassandra cried out, swiftly dismounting from her horse alongside Varric and Solas.  
The small force of allied soldiers were soon going to be outflanked by the sudden swarm of rebels. Cassandra and Solas could only make a singular plea to both sides before it became all too evident that they were set on one another’s destruction. Etain broke off from the others and swerved towards the oncoming Templars, sword in hand. Asfaloth gave her a massive advantage in both height and power. She charged at them, her hart’s head low enough to form a shield of his own with his humungous, broad antlers. Their shields, roughly the size of a door, offered little protection against her assault. Asfaloth crashed against them with perfect momentum, crushing shields against armour with a loud crack and pounded at them with heavy hooves until they grew still. Their use of unit tactics was their undoing, for the lighter equipped footsoldiers were clumped together enough for her to strike out with two easy swings of her sword. She wheeled around to see the others pushing back the mages that had appeared from the eastern path with the help of the soldiers, spells flying in all directions. Only when the Templars were sufficiently dealt with did she swing down from the saddle and run to their side, joining Cassandra at the forefront while Asfaloth paced back and forth where she left him, guarding the road. The mages abandoned their assault for the sake of defense, but in good time, they too were defeated. The battle was over as quickly as it had begun, and the air grew calm once more. The inquisition soldiers planted their iconic flag at the heart of the refugee village, and soon began attending to the fires.  
Etain grimaced at the sight of the area, sure that carrion birds would be the only ones benefiting from such a display. “There is no honour in this kind of warfare” she sighed, flicking the blood from her sword.   
“The mages are desperate to maintain there freedom” Solas said sadly, gazing down at the lifeless corpse of a young robed man. “and the Templars are just as desperate to suppress their efforts”   
“Yet neither seek to defend anything but themselves” Etain said grimly, watching the panicked refugees warily poke their heads out from their hiding places. “and everyone suffers.”

Once the threat had subsided, the wounded were dragged to a safe location, where some of the refugees accompanied the chantry sisters to tend to them. The one she was sent to meet stood out prominently from the others, her iconic habit sitting proudly on her head, the mark of a revered mother. She knelt by an injured soldier, whispering her soft and soothing words as he clutched the wound on his side, eyeing the mages who attended the others with great distrust.   
“Mother Giselle?”   
She rose to her feet, a picture of reverent grace, and gave her a sweet smile. “I am. And you must be the one who they are calling the herald of andraste”  
“I heard you asked for me?” she replied, dismissing the title entirely.  
They walked together for a moment, moving out of earshot of the others. “I know of the chantry’s denouncement, and I am familiar with those responsible. I wont lie to you; some of them are grandstanding. Hoping to increase their chances of becoming the next divine. Some are simply terrified, so many senselessly taken away from us...”  
“it was a senseless tragedy” she said somberly, mirroring the elder woman’s softness of tone.   
“Fear makes us desperate. But hopefully not beyond reason.”  
She turned to her, all soft smiles and gentle eyes, the typical trademark of one who had found peace in their faith, a feat accomplished by few. “Go to them, convince the remaining clerics that you are no demon to be feared. They have heard only frightful tales of you. Give them something else to believe.”  
“that won’t just make it worse?” Etain asked, her brow furrowed in doubt.   
“Because you are not human?”  
“indeed”  
the knowing look that crossed her features very nearly reminded her of Keeper Deshanna. “Let me put it this way; you need not convince them all. You just need some of them to doubt. Their power is a unified voice; take that away from them, and you will receive the time you need.”  
Etain pondered her words for a moment, wondering at the woman’s cunning thought pattern. It was no wonder the Chantry held such a strong influence over the people of Thedas, and it was clearly not a simple matter of a unified faith.   
She bowed her head in thanks. “it is kind of you to do this.”  
“I honestly don’t know if you’ve been touched by faith or sent to help us…but I hope. Hope is what we need now. The people will listen to your rallying call, as they will listen to no other. You could build the inquisition into a force that will deliver us…or destroy us.”  
Etain suppressed the urge to shudder. She was content enough to serve alongside the inquisition, even be its supposed representative if it meant gaining the allies that would contribute to sealing the breach, but in her heart she did not consider herself a part of it. An oath much longer standing took priority in her heart, and when the immediate danger was dealt with, she would return to her true duty. 

 

The Redcliffe farmlands had thankfully remained relatively untouched by the upheaval that reached across the rest of the Hinterlands. Once they had crossed the river, the heavy air of smoke and blood dissipated, snuffed out by the gentle scent of agricultural activity and the warmth of the midday sun. the road had been riddled with evidence of warfare, abandoned camps and rebels stuffed into every available crevice in the hills. Desperation was the dominant trademark of these forces, Etain thought ruefully, and desperation was unleashing a sense of barbarism and madness in both sides.   
“This must be Dennet’s farmland” Varric gestured to the horses dozing in their pens, oblivious to the outside world. “At least this place hasn’t been torn up, that’s something”

“Obtaining his horses would be a great bolster to the Inquisition’s forces” Solas remarked cheerfully. “Provided he is willing to part with them.”

Farmhands tilling the fields stopped to stare at them as they passed through, and up ahead Etain spied an old man seated outside a modest house, surveying the days work as a king might overlook his entire land. At their approach, he snapped out of his lazy surveillance and scrambled to his feet, scurrying to the door of his house and shielding himself behind it. “Makers balls, I don’t want no trouble!” he exclaimed with a fearful whimper. “We got nothin’ of worth around here I swear!”  
She urged Asfaloth to a stop and peered at him with curiosity. He looked genuinely terrified, and she was suddenly aware of the partially dried blood that soaked her Hart’s antlers and matted his fur. With a gentle pressure from her heels, he lowered himself to the ground and she gently dismounted.   
“Apologies sir” she said calmly. “I did not mean to startle you”   
The old man hesitated, regarding her with confusion. “What’s a Halla-rider want ‘round these parts?”  
“You are speaking to the Herald of Andraste” Cassandra said, a hint of sharpness lacing her clipped Navarran accent. “We are here on behalf of the inquisition.”  
“Oh, i…I see” he came out from behind the door, slowly. “I apologize, my lady. We don’t expect outsiders these days, least of all ones who don’t mean to burn our homes down.”  
“You are Master Dennet, yes?”  
He nodded, brushing the dust from his tunic, still eyeing her warily. “Aye”  
“Does my presence bother you?” She asked. It was a genuine question, given the way he looked at her and her Hart. She was not here to antagonize the commoners, after all. It would only be a poor reflection on her kin.   
“Oh no!” he said assuredly, snapping his eyes away from Asfaloth. “Forgive me, I’ve no quarrels with your kind Herald. I’ve got nothin’ but respect for anyone who can ride a beast like that. I’d give my right arm to tame one.”  
“Halla are not tamed” she said staunchly. “They hold equal place amongst my kind, as companions”  
He nodded with great interest. “Impressive feat, nonetheless.”  
Etain offered him a smile. She had little quarrel with the commoners, who mostly kept to their own business, and any who didn’t were generally harmless enough unless the militia got involved, or worse, the nobility. She could tell by instinct that Dennet was not an unkind man, but simply uninformed, and she could not fault him for that.   
Master Dennet gestured to his home. “Where are my manners? Come inside, please”  
She looked back at her companions and shrugged, following him inside.   
“So, I take it you’re here for my horses?” he asked, pouring himself a cup of mead and pulling out a seat for her.  
It did not take long to conclude the arrangement, and she found herself rather enjoying Dennet’s brash and honest nature as they talked at length about the finer points of riding and training their contrasting steeds. She considered that if any human could earn the trust of a halla, it would be this man.   
“You could come to Haven and tend your horses there?” she offered. “I am sure the inquisition would be honoured to have your expertise on hand.”  
He pondered the thought for a moment, mulling it over as he swirled the contents of his mug. “Ah, I suppose I could call it a charitable duty. The wife might not be happy, but if you were inclined to help her with the wolf problem around here, she might be convinced to loosen the leash for a while”  
She gave a little laugh at that. “I would be happy to help”  
“you send your troops on up here to escort my horses, and I’ll prepare to set out tomorrow. Fine talking to you, Herald.”

“And you, horsemaster”

 

Obtaining the horses was a small bolster to the inquisition’s influence, but it was a good start. There were hundreds of refugees crying out for help, and as Cassandra was quick to point out, every gesture of goodwill would bode well for the inquisition.


	14. A Winged Messenger

Fresh tales of the Herald’s exploits were reaching Haven even faster than official reports. Tales of a wild woman who stalked the land atop a mighty beast, drenched in the blood of rebels and demons. A woman who was hailed as the Maker’s chosen; the Herald of Andraste.   
The title conjured up the vision of a woman who bore all the reverence and grace of Andraste herself; a true servant of the Maker who would lead the faithful in his glorious name. The reality was a stark contrast.   
The Elf who called herself Lavellan (A clan name, not her own, as it turned out), had little reservation about denying the title or its meaning. She stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the residents of Haven, and despite the effort to dissolve any vicious rumours surrounding her presence, they still managed to creep through the village from unknown sources. The news from the Hinterlands presented her in a mixed light. She readily came to the aid of the refugees caught in the maelstrom of rebel activity, but the sight was supposedly something terrifying to all who witnessed it. A Dalish elf wandering through the hills astride a beast almost twice the size of a horse was not something common folk took to with ease. It was too foreign a concept for most to grasp, and it would take a long time for them to come to terms with it.  
Ambassador Montilyet was intent on the idea that Divine providence would be enough to sway the minds of the people, along with the knowledge that her mark was the only method of closing the breach. It was effective, but for the wrong reasons. She was tolerated, even respected, for those reasons, but only out of fear. Fear of denying what might well be the will of the Maker. 

“How can we possibly trust these matters to someone we know nothing about?” Cullen paced before the war table, quickly scanning the military report that had arrived from the Hinterlands earlier that morning.

Lelliana moved silently across the room, hands behind her back and eyes raised to the ceiling. “you have some issue with her methods I take it? From what my scouts report, she has been effective in obtaining exactly what we needed. I see no issue.”

“There’s a fine line between fame and notoriety. Even with Cassandra’s supervision she’s still managing to terrify the locals”

“Not nearly as much as the rebel mages and Templars” Lelliana said pointedly. “and at any rate, the Dalish possess great knowledge and ability. We should be honoured to have one amongst us.”

“As our representative?” he asked, incredulous at the Spymaster’s lack of concern. “Do they even believe in the Maker? I’ve heard she completely denies any claims of being the Herald of Andraste. How does this help us in any way when it’s one of our only bargaining points?”

“Many would deny such a claim given the circumstances, Dalish or no” she said assuredly. “It is a difficult notion to swallow. Surely even Andraste did not believe she was the Maker’s chosen when she first heard her calling.”

“Do you believe it?”

Lelliana blinked at him, pondering his words, before nodding. “I do, of course I do. You doubt it?”

“I…” he sighed, shaking his head irritably. “I don’t know. I cannot imagine he would choose someone so….”

“Unconventional?”

He nodded grimly. “To say the least”

She merely shrugged at that. “The Maker works in strange ways. We should not doubt his will, especially at a time like this.”

A part of him wanted to debate her on that point, but the opportunity was cut short when a messenger came stumbling into the room, a confused expression on his face as he bowed low. “Er…apologies sir, sister Lelianna”

Lelliana gave the scout a hard look. “what is it?”

“I…well, a messenger bird just arrived”

“And the message?” she asked, noting the lack of any paper in his hands. 

The young man rubbed the back of his neck and gestured behind him. “Well…its not one of ours, for a certainty. Its no raven. ”

Lelliana gave a long sigh, following the scout out of the room and looking back to him. “I’m curious about this. Excuse me a moment, I’ll look into it”

Cullen neatly stacked his papers and added them to lady Montilyet’s already large pile of correspondences. “I need to check something with the blacksmith anyways, and this sounds worth observing.”

As soon as they were outside, the reason for the messenger’s confusion was suddenly evident. Seated atop the quartermaster’s tent was a massive mountain eagle, roughly the length of a grown man’s torso. He would not have recognized it if he hadn’t recalled the image of such a creature depicted in a book he’d read as a child. Tied to it’s leg was a leather scroll case. Its bright golden eyes peered down at them menacingly.

“Makers breath…” he gasped. 

Lelliana observed the bird with great interest before turning to the still bewildered messenger. “Fetch me some meat, would you? Uncooked if possible.”

He nodded, disappearing into the tavern and remerging a few moments later with a small slab of raw meat on a wooden plate. Lelliana cut off a small piece and tossed it high into the air, and the eagle took to the air in a flash, catching it in its talons before landing on the ground with a small thud. It tore into the raw meat with fervor, and while it was distracted she slowly moved closer and knelt beside it, deftly untying the cord around its leg and snatching the scroll case, narrowly avoiding a sharp peck from its huge, blood covered beak. It uttered aloud warning screech and took flight once more, this time landing on the roof of the chantry, staring daggers at them both. 

“Ah, now I understand” she said, furrowing her brow as she pulled out the scroll and inspected it. “we ought to fetch Josephine.”

He quirked his brow at her. “who’s it from?”

She tapped on the wax seal and held it out close enough for him to inspect. Stamped into the red wax, he saw the imprint of a stag's head adorned with ornate, twisted horns. “That is a Dalish seal.”


	15. No Greater Insult

Etain rode back to Haven with her companions in tow. Three days of open fighting in the Hinterlands with little time for rest, where rebel mages and Templar foot soldiers fought like dogs with barely a realization of the damage they caused, and even less of a mind to comprehend words of reason. Rifts were in high abundance all across the region, spewing small units of demons that corrupted the land with their foul presence, driving the animals to madness in their wake. She felt their sadness, heard the cries of pain and anguish that the others likely could not. Her ranger upbringing made her sensitive to the fragile balance of nature, and that balance was all but gone here. Even Asfaloth began to struggle to remain composed near the rifts, and she was careful to leave him in a safe place when their numbers were high. There were some places in the mountains that the plague of chaos had not yet reached, and only there could she breathe the cold air and quiet the sound of the land’s grief within her mind.  
They returned just as the sun was beginning to set. The soldiers were just leaving the training yard when they arrived, looking weary after a long day of practice. Even in a larger cluster they looked too green to even be called real fighters, but it was a common thing amongst human kind. In times of war any man capable of holding a sword was considered a soldier. Humans won their wars with numbers, not skill, as far as history showed. It was something often questioned by the young amongst clan Lavellan during the early years of training, when their Haren would regale them with tales of the past and the battles that had shaped the face of Thedas.

“Why would they send poorly trained warriors to fight?” she was but a child of nine winters when she asked Haren Maharon that question.  
He had peered down at her with hard eyes, leaning on the gnarled wooden walking stick he often carried with him during his lessons. He was a man of many years who had seen much in his lifetime, and his wisdom was not something easily forgotten by his students. “Not warriors” he corrected her sternly. “Soldiers, da’len. A warrior is one who lives and breathes for the principles of honour and peace, who does not fear death but realizes it’s glory in the defense and preservation of their people and their freedom. True warriors spend a lifetime mastering their art, and spill blood only when there is just cause. A soldier is but a man who relinquishes his identity and assumes a rank, a veritable slave to those who command them. It is rare for a warrior to rise from such poor beginnings.”

“It is known” she whispered to herself as she watched these men march in their orderly fashion back into the village, contemplating the Haren’s words with a grim new sense of meaning. Most of these men would likely die needlessly in the days to come. 

“We should report to the war room immediately.” Cassandra said, swiftly dismounting her horse and leading it alongside her to the stables ahead, where Dennet and his horses were already comfortably established from the looks of it.

Etain rubbed her forehead against Asfaloth’s snout and left him under the tree scape, where he gladly kicked at the snow in search of grass to feed on. Varric and Solas kindly waited for her and together they made for the war room, following the steady pace Cassandra kept in her rush to meet with the Inquisition’s figureheads.  
A welcome but unexpected sight greeted her upon her return. “Revas!” she cried, gazing up at her father’s black-gold hunting eagle, who was perched cautiously atop the chantry building. The bird uttered a loud screech which she mimicked in return, and Revas flew down to meet her as soon as she extended her arm. Her sharp talons dug into her sleeve insistently where she made her perch on her forearm, which under normal circumstances would have been wrapped in a fur gauntlet. Revas was the largest of clan Lavellan’s hunting birds, and the beloved companion of her own father, who had hatched and reared her himself over the course of twelve years. Her presence could only mean one thing; her clan were seeking answers, and the lack of an attached message meant that the correspondence was in the possession of someone else. The dried blood on the eagle’s beak suggested she had at least been fed, an expected reward for a bird who had journeyed far to deliver a message of importance. Her heart was racing, impatient for answers and desperate to know what they had sent.  
“Another friend of yours I take it?” Varric said with a chuckle. “you certainly have a thing with animals”  
“Revas came with a message” she said shortly, frowning as she stroked the birds crest in a soothing manner.  
“I would assume Lelliana will have it” Cassandra said warily, eyeing Revas much as she did Asfaloth. “Come, we shall see”  
She gave the eagle an encouraging nudge and she flapped back to her original post with due haste. Etain hurried ahead of the Seeker, bursting into the war room to see the council already in attendance. Lady Montiylet jumped at her unexpected arrival, recovering her composure with a low bow. “Oh! Mistress Lavellan, we are glad to see you have-“  
“Where is the message?” she said sharply, with a great deal more demand than she had intended, earning a coldly scrutinizing look from the commander.  
Lelliana produced the rolled up parchment from her pocket and handed it to her. The seal was broken, as she expected it would be. “It was addressed to the Inquisition, from your clan’s Keeper” Lelliana said assuredly.  
She unrolled the paper and scanned its contents carefully;

Clan Lavellan offers greetings to the Inquisition and wishes it well in sealing the Breach that has opened in the sky. While some Dalish clans hate humans and wish nothing to do with them, Clan Lavellan has always dealt fairly with all and wished only for peace. That said, we have on occasion been forced to defend ourselves from those who saw us only as potential victims.  
It has come to our attention that a member of our clan is being held captive by your Inquisition. She went to the Conclave only to observe the peace talks between your mages and templars, and we find it highly unlikely that she intentionally violated your customs. If she has been charged with a crime, we would appreciate hearing of it. If not, it would ease our concerns to hear from her to know that she remains with the Inquisition of her own will.  
We await your reply,  
Keeper Istimaethorial Lavellan

Etain felt a huge sense of relief wash over her as she held the paper tightly in her hand. Keeper Deshana was fiercely protective over her clan, but she was a skilled mediator and diplomat when it came to matters of human politics. No doubt word had reached them of the conclave’s destruction, but her decision to stand with the inquisition would have surely been regarded as highly suspicious. Etain had never shown any desire to remain close to humankind, and their skepticism was understandable. Several subtle hints of her father’s concern were evident within the message, so much so that she could practically see him pacing back and forth in the keepers Aravel, stubbornly insisting that something was amiss. The thought was as heartwarming as it was worrying. 

“We wished to consult with you before sending any sort of response, Herald” said Josephine worriedly. 

She looked up at the ambassador and offered a nod of thanks. “it was kind of you to do so”

The ambassador gave her a warm smile and prepared a fresh piece of paper on her lectern. “I thought that perhaps we could have one of our elven scribes deliver a message of your safety as well as the inquisitions fair treatment?”

Beside her, Lelliana shook her head. “It may not be enough to convince them. they do after all believe you are a prisoner still. Your people respect deeds, not words. I could have my elven agents deliver something of use to them as a show of good faith.”

Etain admired their careful consideration, but she was not convinced that either option would fully satisfy the clan. She knew her father too well. If he was unsatisfied with the Inquisition’s response, he might be inclined to seek a more concise answer in person, and where he went, his riders would likely follow. The night before her departure to the conclave, he had briefed her with grim detail of the outcome of capture for Dalish elves, just as he did every time she was due to set out, a horrific reminder of the consequences of failure. If such possibilities still played on his mind, he would be out for blood, and not even the keeper would be capable of calming him.

Not after what happened all those years ago….

“We needn’t bother our people here with this issue. I have men posted near enough to the area. I can have them deliver news of your safety.” The Commander cut in sharply, running a gloved finger along the northern section of the map where the free marches were depicted in fine detail. “and make it clear that the inquisition should be taken seriously.”

The contemplative murmurs in the room fell silent in an instant. Etain’s blood ran cold as she stared at the commander, mouth agape. All at once a surge of pure, violent rage shattered her composure like a blast of fire to a thin sheet of glass, and her hand was already tightly gripping her sword before her mind even realized it. 

“Fenedhis lasa” she hissed loudly through gritted teeth, and at that he looked up to realize that all eyes in the room were upon him. “You would dare pay such insult to MY KIN?”

She expected he would back down, make another poorly concealed lie of an apology perhaps, but his face was impassive, resolute. Infuriating. 

“Ah, mistress Lavellan, I am sure the commander did not mean to pay any insult your people” Josephine squealed desperately. “Perhaps if we just-“

“Indeed I did not” He said coldly. “It is your clan who falsely accuses the Inquisition of unfair treatment, however your leader might disguise it with pleasantries.”

The hand that was not occupied with the sword at her side formed into a tight fist which she slammed down hard on the solid surface of the table. “And you seek to threaten them with a show of force?” she spat, incredulous at his blatant show of knowing disrespect. “my own family, who only wish to know of my safety?”

“And my troops would gladly deliver word of it, Herald.” He said in a tone of sickeningly mocking pleasantness. “unless, of course, you believe your kin would be quick to press an assault without due reason?”

“Due reason?” the words barely made it past her lips, so great was her struggle to keep her head above the rising tide of white hot rage that was threatening to consume her entirely. He was purposely challenging her, and she knew why. “how dare you-“

Solas’ hand wrapped around her arm the moment it tensed to unsheathe her sword, quick as a flash. “Hamin, Lethalan. I’m sure the commander is quite unaware of the ways of the Dalish” he said soothingly, his fingers digging insistently into the muscles in her arm. “or how such a display of force might be viewed”

Etain felt the low hum of magic that subtly emanated from his palm, sending a warm, calming surge through her that quieted the anger that churned in her belly. She gave a long, drawn out sigh, and bowed her head. “Ma Serannas” she said begrudgingly, avoiding the commander’s inscrutable gaze. “I…wish to simply ensure that nothing is misinterpreted by either side. It would be best if i…wrote them a letter personally. They will know my handwriting, and there will be no question of my safety or reasons for staying. If perhaps an elven messenger might deliver it on my behalf, I would be grateful. I will make sure Revas- the eagle who sent the original missive, returns to them as well, once she is fed enough to travel safely”

Everyone present seemed to breathe a simultaneous sigh of relief. Everyone save the commander, who still kept his wary gaze upon her. 

“I shall see to it that a messenger is deployed as soon as you have penned your message, Herald” Josephine said quietly, keeping her eyes firmly on the notes she was quickly writing on her lectern. 

“Yes, and….in the meantime, I’m sure the Seeker can brief us on your experiences in the Hinterlands, if you wish to attend to your matter presently.” said Lelliana, giving her a look that suggested she understood her desire to be away from the war room as soon as possible. 

She bowed her head respectfully, and before she knew it Solas was escorting her out of the room and hurrying her down the hallway, out of earshot of the others. As soon as they were outside, she jerked her wrist from his grasp.  
“He is no more than a brutish thug!” she hissed, taking a deep breath of the mountain air to calm herself.  
“He is a Templar” Solas said assuredly. “They are not known for having open minds, Lethalan. Call it a willing ignorance. You have the chantry to thank for that.”  
She sighed, shaking her head. “I must remain here until the breach is closed.”  
Solas nodded, crossing his arms and peering across the village thoughtfully. “Heroes must often face adversity and rise above it.”

“I am no hero”

“You must be, at least in the eyes of the people” he said firmly. 

“And how shall I do that?”

“Suledin” he whispered cryptically.

She looked at him for a long moment, and then followed his gaze to the village, her brow softening as she thought on the word. 

“Suledin” she agreed, pushing away the grim thoughts that clawed at her mind.


	16. A Howling Wind

Aneth’ara Keeper,  
I thank you for your kind letter, though I regret to say that due to circumstances beyond my control I must remain here in Haven indefinitely until the breach is no longer a threat. I know you will have heard the rumours, though no doubt they are vague. I am safe, this I promise. The inquisition has treated me with utmost kindness and understanding and continues to do so. While I cannot say it was my intention, for gods know I would gladly have returned home as soon as it was possible, I have decided to stand with the Inquisition during this time for the greater good. The threat that looms so precariously in the sky will spread its foul corruption across the land, and I will do everything in my power to prevent it from ever reaching clan Lavellan.  
No doubt you have heard what the people call me now. This “Herald of Andraste” title is not something I can fathom, and I bear no love for it. For the time being, however, it seems to serve a purpose both in keeping me from harm and bringing some sense of harmony to the shemlen who are inclined to believe in its significance. I continue to harbor my true faith in the gods, though to hide it causes me great shame. I would not think to antagonize the people at this time, for the situation is precarious at best. Perhaps my actions might show them, in some small way, that the Elvhen are not evil creatures to be feared. I do not know how successful I will be in this endeavor, but I can only try.  
I hope this letter might ease your worries as yours did mine. I will do my best to see this through, whatever the cost, and pray that I might return to you all when the threat has subsided. 

Mythal protect you all in these dark times.

-E.

 

Etain struggled to keep a steady hand as she carefully penned the letter. A part of her longed to deliver these words in person, but it would only slow her efforts to close the breach and delay her permanent return.  
She checked over the letter as the ink dried, grimacing at the blatant lies she had told. She had purposely left out the details of the mark, and her time in prison, and of course, her safety.

Though she could walk freely in this place with little word from anyone, she knew that if she strayed too far without an escort, they would search for her. She had the mark, she was the key, and they would not allow her to simply walk away if she were so inclined.

They could treat her with as much kindness as they desired, and she truly appreciated what parts of their kindness were genuine, but it was a simple, unspoken truth; even without chains or bars, she was a prisoner still, one who was just as much a liability as she was an asset. 

She did not belong in this place. 

Commander Cullen had been sure to remind her of that, and his insult would not soon be forgotten. 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Ada!Ada,halani!ir’isala ma!”

Karadhras thundered through the dense black mist, desperate to heed the terrified cries of his child. Fear gripped his ever sense, twisting in his gut as he spun around to find the source of the echoing sobs that seemed to come from every direction.  
No matter which direction he faced, only darkness lay before him. But still he willed himself on, his heart thundering in his chest as he screamed out into the shadows.

“Da’len!Na mara san!” he roared, her sobs drumming in his head like a maddening dirge. 

Suddenly the dark world around him shifted, and now there was a path, warped and twisted, etching its way before him, and a sound even more horrifying ripped through the air. Too familiar, too painful for him to bear.

Wolves, giant and demonic with their blood red eyes and crimson veins coursing through dark, clumped fur, clawing their way out of the ground like the dead rising from their graves. But they paid no heed to him. They focused only on the huddled, bloodied form at the end of his path.

Etain. 

He went to move, but the darkness was pulling him down, dragging him into the unforgiving void that spawned this despicable place.

“Etainiel!” he bellowed, desperate tears streaming down his face as he struggled fruitlessly against his bindings. “Run, Da’len! Please, get up and run from this place!”

The hunched, crimson-soaked form of his daughter rose unsteadily to her feet, looking beyond the wolves and gazing sorrowfully into his eyes. 

“I do this for our people, father” she whispered, her voice a distant, mournful echo. “It must be so”

Karadhras could only watch, powerless and mad with anguish, as she held out her arms, eyes closed in reverent peace.

The wolves lunged, rending flesh and bone, their abhorrent howls of victory filling the air with a haze of blood.

 

It was his screams broke the heinous spell of his fevered sleep. 

“Maella, vhenan…I promised…I swore…” he rasped hoarsely, the sweat on his brow blinding him in his weary haze. “what have I done but sent her into their waiting jaws?” 

There were no comforting words, no gentle caresses to ease his mind’s suffering. 

Those cherished days had passed long ago. 

Only the howling northern wind answered him now.


	17. A Matter of Faith

Cassandra reigned heavy blows down upon the sorry looking training dummy in front of her, seeking an outlet for the pent up frustration and doubt that had been gnawing at her mind ever since the conclave’s destruction.   
In most things, she was steadfast and sure of her actions, but ever since the events in Kirkwall unfolded, she had started to second-guess everything.  
The Inquisition’s formation weighed heavy on her shoulders. The chancellor was quick to remind her that there was no grounded proof of its right to even exist. There had been a writ, penned by the Most Holy herself, but it had been kept safe under lock and key within her quarters, at the apex of the Temple’s destruction. Now they were left to prove the worth and honour of their cause with poor foundations. Even with their actions in the Hinterlands, there was a great deal more to do, and many people to convince. They would need unity, a perfect trifecta of subtlety, diplomacy and military influence to solidify their place in the world. Currently all three forces were struggling to stay rigid against the increasing pressure of doubt and mistrust that the nobility and chantry officials showed, and a part of her was starting to show heavy doubt for her own decision. As right hand of the Divine, she felt compelled to follow Justinia’s last wishes, and Lelliana had bolstered her faith in their efforts. Yet still there remained a singular, critical problem; the inquisition was leaderless, and that fact alone came under heavy scrutiny from many potential allies. They had both hoped that Varric’s information would lead them to the Champion of Kirkwall, who held a massive influence over the events that had lead to the Templar-mage rebellion, and was well established as an icon of trust and influence to the people. Much to her dismay, however, Hawke had vanished during the uprising, and not even Varric could tell them where he might be. For all the time she had spent loathing his actions, Hawke had become an inspirational figure and a true hero, even in her eyes, and his absence left many things hanging in a precarious imbalance.   
Thankfully, they still had one last gambit to play on; the Herald of Andraste, the mysterious woman who survived the blast that felled hundreds and walked out of the fade unscathed. She was not what anyone expected, but perhaps that was a favourable asset, a sign of a changing world.   
Cassandra let her sword drop to the ground, her chest heaving from the exertion of her more favourable form of anger management. She looked back at the soldiers in the yard behind her, practicing their usual stint of rigorous exercises as Cullen observed them, his expression hard and grim. He stood, arms folded across his chest, unmoving as a stone golem as he mentally picked at the flaws in his military units. He was particularly unhappy with their current situation for more than a few reasons, and quick to voice his concerns. She knew he was adept with training seasoned Templars, used to men who followed orders diligently and learned fast. He was still learning to effectively manage such new-blooded soldiers, though he was doing remarkably well despite the strain of their predicament, as she knew he would. He had been in a sorry state when she found him in Kirkwall, leaderless and barely held together after the Knight-Commander’s turn to madness. In the absence of a level-headed leader, the remaining Templars looked to him for guidance, and even in his broken state he held them together when chaos stained the streets. It had taken a great deal of convincing, but eventually he was swayed by her proposition of joining the Inquisition. Since then, he had wholly dedicated himself to their cause, and it went a long way towards repairing the damage that had slowly threatened to unravel him entirely. He still struggled a great deal, but rarely showed it, a typical trait for a Templar.   
Unfortunately that same admirable stubbornness harboured its own flaws. It was easy to see the high level of hostility that had risen almost instantaneously between the commander and the Herald. It did not take much to realize its origins. She had been their prime suspect of the Divine’s murder, with enough evidence to condemn her instantly, at least in the eyes of the masses. Cassandra had struggled greatly with her own convictions, but the Herald, despite her enigmatic, foreign nature, held a strange sense of honour that no murderer could possibly bear. She stayed when she could have run, and Cassandra never forgot that fact. 

When she finally made her way back through the village, she noticed the Herald seated by the fire where Varric usually resided, though he was likely holed up in his tent, dealing with his suspicious correspondences as he usually did in the evenings. She sat cross-legged in the snow, her armour laid across her lap as she tended to it with a thick needle and thread. When Cassandra approached, she did not look up, merely offering a grunt of recognition as she split the thread with her sharp teeth. “Seeker”  
“Good evening, Herald” she said, thumping her fist against her breastplate in a warriors salute. “I take it your letter has been sent?”  
She nodded, stabbing the needle into the soft leather underneath the hard lamellar plating. “It was sent last night, thank you”  
It was easy to see that she was agitated, likely from their previous meeting in the war room. She had berated Cullen to no end for his snide comments, but he remained steadfast in his reasoning.   
“Something’s bothering you” The Herald said suddenly, snapping her eyes upwards to observe her.   
“I…yes. How did you know?” she asked, incredulous at her sharp observation.  
She turned her gaze back to her needlework. “It is not hard to see.”  
Cassandra took a seat on the free bench across from her and leaned towards the fire. “Did I make the right choice?” she asked, more a question to herself than the Herald. “what I have set in motion here could destroy everything I have revered my whole life. One day they might write of me as a traitor, a madwoman, a fool. And maybe they’re right.”  
“What does your faith tell you?” The elf asked, turning her armour in her hands to inspect any futher damage.   
She looked at the young woman for a long moment, pondering the profound nature of her question, and the strangeness of it. “I believe that you are innocent.” She said, and it was a point she seemed to be reiterating a great deal as of late. “I believe there is more going on here than we can see, and I believe no one else cares to do anything about it. They simply stand in the fire and complain that it is hot”  
The herald set aside her leatherwork and peered at her intently. “Then perhaps you should care less about what others think.”  
Cassandra could not help but feel that there was some level of empathy in those words. There was a profound wisdom within such a simple suggestion, though it seemed hardly possible when so much had yet to be decided.   
“Is this the makers will?” she wondered aloud, watching the flames before her flickering in the gentle breeze. “I can only guess.”  
There was a long moment of silence before the elf spoke again. “You did what was necessary. Taking action when others shrank from the opportunity is commendable.”  
“You believe so?” she asked.   
“I do.”  
She smiled slightly at the assurance the Herald offered, though the shame of her initial judgment crept out from the back of her mind. This woman hardly knew her, and had every reason not to trust her she realized, yet beneath her guarded exterior, she was showing a most unexpected kindness. Cassandra recalled a time in which she too had been imprisoned falsely, and knew the terror and anger that came with waiting for an undue execution. She could not brook the idea of staying long in the presence of her jailors. Did she truly have the right to ask it of someone else?  
“I misjudged you at the start, did I not?” she admitted grimly.  
The elf sighed, hoisting herself up onto the bench opposite her. “I anticipated misconceptions about my presence at the conclave. I always do”

“You have…surveyed human activity before then?”

“On occasion. It is sometimes necessary to ensure our safety”

“I will not make such a mistake again” she said earnestly. “it was careless of me. I can be…harsh sometimes, I know.”

She merely shrugged, her sharp, angular features illuminated by the flames. Her long, silver braid was thrown over her shoulder, tapering all the way down to her lap. Why any woman would want such a troublesome length of hair was beyond her understanding. A strange woman indeed.

Fidgeting uncomfortably with her gauntlet, she cast a worried look at the herald. “You’ve said that you don’t believe you are chosen…does that mean you also don’t believe in the maker?”

The elf visibly grimaced at that. “I am Dalish” she said firmly. “I worship the Gods of the Elvhen”

“And there’s no room amongst your pantheon for one more god?” she asked hopefully.

She was unmoved, it appeared, and she looked up at her thoughtfully. “what does your maker give his people?”

“The maker gave us the world. He shields us from harm and lends his strength to those who are faithful.”

A strange half-smile appeared on the Herald’s lips and she shook her head. “The Elvhen believe that Elgar’nan is the father of the earth, and the All-Mother guides and protects us with her love.”

“Do you believe then that it was your Gods, and not the Maker, who put you on this path?” Cassandra asked defensively, feeling the urge to debate those views rising from years of strict piety. Seekers were not taught to so much as conceive the notion of any god beyond the Maker.

A dark look crossed the Herald’s hard features as she leaned closer to the fire. “I do not.”

Cassandra sighed, willing herself to speak no more on the subject of faith before it escalated into something less pleasant. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. I have to believe you have been put on this path for a reason, even if you do not.”

She nodded, wringing her hands as yet another bout of tense silence rose up between them. She supposed it would be a good time to depart, but she found herself growing more and more curious about who this mysterious woman truly was. “It occurs to me that I don’t know much about you, Lady Lavellan.”

The elf glanced up at her guardedly, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. “What is it you wish to know?” she asked, before adding “And please do not call me “Lady”. “

Despite the awkwardness she felt, Cassandra smiled slightly. She despised it when people called her “Lady Pentaghast”, and the Herald seemed to hold the same sentiment. Perhaps not so different after all, she thought. “I don’t know….” She said, thinking for a moment. “Where are you from?”

She cocked her head ever so slightly to one side, pondering the question before her expression softened with understanding. “Ah, Nowhere? My people are nomads, we do not reside in a single place for long. My clan travels predominantly in the free marches.”

“Oh? I didn’t think your people roamed so far north. Clearly I was mistaken.”

The Herald smiled, and this time there was a genuine warmth to it. “Clan Lavellan are built for the harsh winters” she said proudly. “we are rangers and warriors, built to traverse the harshest weather.”

Cassandra nodded with interest, wondering at the notion of the nomadic lifestyle she described. She found it difficult to imagine ever feeling safe without walls and grounded defenses after growing up in such grand, fortified settlements. “Do you intend to go back to them?”

“When the breach is closed, I will return.” She said without pause, giving the distinct impression of it being a thought that was often in her mind. “It would be the best choice, for everyone.”  
There was a heavy weight in those words. Cassandra did not need to wonder how she had reached such a conclusion. She thought to reassure her but the words simply failed her. Instead she merely nodded in acknowledgement.   
“I hope you can, when this is done.”

The Herald rose to her feet then, rolling her shoulders with a frown. “I suppose we must depart for Val Royeaux soon. “

“Indeed, we must.” She said solemnly. “If we are to garner the chantry’s favour and put an end to the doubt in our cause.”

“So I am to stand trial after all” she whispered under her breath, turning away from her. 

She made towards her cabin, but paused hesitantly in the doorway, looking back at her. “I am unused to conversing with your kind, Seeker. I appreciate your belief in me, and I hope you find peace with your troubled thoughts”

Cassandra blinked with surprise. “I…thank you, Herald Lavellan.”


	18. The Captured Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite being insanely tired after a long days work I was highly pumped to get this chapter done. Been in the works for a while but im glad ive got it up. As much as I love progressive storytelling, part of my fan girly brain likes to occasionally scream "make with the sexual tension already!". Anyways, some sentences are a little repetitious due to my lack of sleep, but hope you guys enjoy nonetheless!

The people of Haven gathered in the Chantry halls, where Mother Giselle would soon give her Sunday Sermon. The war room would remain locked for the day so that all might come and make their prayers in peace. Even with it’s new purpose, Haven was still a hallowed place for the faithful, and many were glad for a brief interlude of quiet between the machinations of politics and battle. Today, at least, the people could truly mourn the passing of Divine Justinia, and gain some sense of peace on the devastation of the Conclave.  
Mother Giselle stood before the altar, a picture of holy reverence, with hands outstretched as the people went to their knees, hands clasped in prayer. It was easy to see that every resident of the village, permanent or visiting, was in attendance. Everyone, save the two most recent and unusual arrivals, one of which was more a concern that the other.

The Herald of Andraste.

The elven apostate was missed by no one. His reasons for staying with the inquisition were known to no one, but his knowledge was invaluable. He kept to himself and caused little trouble, lending his insight to matters pertaining to the breach. He undoubtedly kept his own faith, if any, and did not seem to have any interest in the Maker. It was not liked, but accepted, for he was an informative ally, but perhaps not so much a part of the Inquisition itself.  
The Herald, whatever faith she kept, should have been in attendance. The offer had been made, its importance emphasized, by Lady Montilyet, but she had turned it down without a second thought, insisting that for her own reasons she would not be there. It was a brazen move that would be easily be seen as a snub to many. Even now there were dignitaries arriving in Haven, hoping to catch a glance of the wild woman who carried the inquisition’s faith on her unwilling shoulders. Although this day was for prayer and solace, gossip never rested, and by the end of the evening, word of the Herald’s lack of faith would flow from Haven like a cascading waterfall.

 

“All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands,  
From the lowest slaves  
To the highest kings.  
Those who bring harm  
Without provocation to the least of His children  
Are hated and accursed by the Maker….”

Cullen bowed his head low, his forehead pressed against his knuckles as he followed the words of the Canticles of Transfiguration in his mind, trying his hardest to push away the thoughts of duty and garner some sense of peace from the sermon. It had become a difficult thing for him to do in the recent years, for all the disquiet of his mind that plagued him well into the night, and quite often prevented a restful sleep. He had never truly lost his faith, but lacked the comfort that it once provided in his youth. Still, he amended, since joining the inquisition he had come to be reminded of what it meant to belong to a truly righteous cause, and that in a way gave him some small measure of comfort. He would give all he could to see its efforts succeed, and quell any threat that faced it.  
“…Those who bear false witness  
And work to deceive others, know this:  
There is but one Truth.  
All things are known to our Maker  
And He shall judge their lies….”

Beside him, Cassandra appeared deeply focused in her prayers. He wondered at the piety of the Seekers, feeling almost jealous of the reverence they seemed to display. She was the only one of their secretive order he had ever come into contact with, something which he was immensely grateful for. The arrival of a Seeker was always considered a terrible sign to the Templars, for it meant there was something greatly amiss, usually within the ranks of the Templars themselves. Their discipline was second to none, though their teachings were highly secretive and yielded a resolve even a Templar couldn’t dream of. When he had voiced his concerns regarding the Herald and her conduct, he was immensely surprised of her easy acceptance of the situation.  
“you saw what she did to our soldiers” he had reminded her adamantly following the war room meeting. “do you really believe someone with that sort of training could be anything less than an assassin?”  
Cassandra had considered his words, at least, but she remained true to her opinion. “I believed it to be a certainty for a time, Commander” she said, shaking her head with a sigh. “but I heard the words of the Most Holy. She cried out to her for help. Someone else is to blame for this, I know that much. The Herald has promised her service to the Inquisition when she could easily have escaped. You ought to remember that.”  
“to what end?” he retorted irritably. “this could be exactly what she wanted.”  
Cassandra rounded on him quickly, her eyes hard. “I believe this is the will of the maker, Cullen. You ought to remember your faith.”  
Faith was a powerful thing, but it was not enough to outweigh logic, at least not in his mind. 

 

Once the sermon had concluded, many remained in the chantry, tending to their own prayers or simply seeking the comforting silence that fell upon the warm hall. Cullen, however, had something more pressing to attend to. If no one else was willing to question the intent of the Herald, he would seek answers personally. He did not forget her threatening display in the training yard, and had no doubt that her intention was to intimidate him. He would not relent to her whim quit so easily, and refused to be made a fool of.  
The streets were quiet, save for the few servants and labourers who chatted amongst themselves. Most of his soldiers remained in the chantry, praying for courage in the face of war. The rest likely resided in the tavern, or relieved the previous watch and took places upon the walls or gates.  
He found Varric in his usual spot by the fireside at the centre of the village, a pile of papers resting on his lap. He had been surprised to see the dwarf standing amongst the others during the sermon, given that most dwarves seemed to worship their ancestors as opposed to a god. The dwarf looked up from his letters and gave him a wave. “How’s the day treating you, curly?”  
Cullen frowned deeply at that. He had met Varric back in Kirkwall many years ago, when he stood with the champion before and during the mage uprising. The dwarf was as smooth as he was cunning, a master of trade and subtlety. At some point he had started referring to him by that pet name when they had journeyed to Haven for the first time, and it seemed to have stuck, much to his dismay.  
“Have you seen the Herald?” he asked, not quite in the mood for pleasantries.  
The dwarf raised a brow and eyed him curiously. “I saw her heading out the gates when everyone else was on their way to the chantry. Why?”  
He sighed deeply and shook his head. “Without an escort I take it, or is she with the apostate again?”  
“Oh, Chuckles? Nah, he’s been mixing potions in his cabin all morning. She was on her own, far as I can tell.”  
“Of course” he muttered. “With so many enemies wanting her head, why not go for a leisurely walk alone outside the gates?”  
“She’s pretty capable of looking after herself” Varric reminded him pointedly. “plus, no offence intended here, but I don’t think she’s too fond of the idea of an armed escort.”  
Cullen nodded grimly. “Nonetheless. I need to speak with her.”  
“She said she wasn’t going far. Something about wanting some quiet time, I think.”  
He turned towards the gates, but paused when Varric cleared his throat audibly. “Hey Curly? Just a little advice; try not to poke the bear too much. She was pretty pissed after your last, er, “conversation” in the war room.”  
“I appreciate your concern, Varric” he replied sarcastically, marching towards the gates with determination in every step.

A part of him half expected she would have wandered across the bridge and been far from here, riding astride that ferocious stag that had seemingly appeared from nowhere just days ago, but thankfully he did not have to walk far to find her. She had her weapons drawn, whirling them gracefully through the air, her every step careful and light, barely making an imprint in the snow. He stood for a moment and watched with fascination as she performed her artful dervish. Every movement was controlled, well-practiced, and yet there was a strange sense of freedom about it, nothing like his own training. Comparing the two forms would have been akin to comparing the flow of water to the firmness of earth.  
Her hart was dozing in the snow not far from her. The beast rose with unexpected speed at his approach, grunting loudly as it went to shield its master, his gargantuan antlers swaying in a hostile manner.  
“Hamin, Asfaloth” the Herald said firmly, and with hesitation, the beast snorted and withdrew to her side.  
She patted him gently, her eyes soft as she looked upon her companion. “He senses an air of hostility in your approach, commander” she said idly, running her fingers soothingly along the stag’s thick coat. “Asfaloth has quite a keen eye for such things.”  
“I can assure you, my lady, that is not the case” he said impatiently. “I simply wished to speak with you, if it is no trouble.”  
The Herald gave her companion a gentle pat, and he plodded off into the treescape. She sheathed her blades and set them down in the snow. She wore no armour today, only a sleeveless jerkin of light leather. The sky was empty of clouds save the ones that constantly circled the breach, making the air particularly cold. How she could fathom the low temperature without more layers was beyond him. “then speak?” she offered, crossing her arms expectantly.  
“You were sorely missed at the sermon today” he said coolly. “Perhaps you were not aware of the importance of your presence, though you were informed of its importance if I recall correctly?”  
“I was” she said coldly. “and I gave my reasons for not attending. Were they not satisfactory?”  
“You are well aware, madam, that the Inquisition is under great scrutiny at this time.” He said through gritted teeth, all too aware that she was testing his patience with purpose. “do you expect that people will rally to our cause so long as you snub their beliefs?”  
she merely shrugged. “Is that the opinion of your Inquisition, or a more personal one?”  
He opened his mouth to speak, and it hung open for a long moment as he suddenly realized he had nothing to say to that. He cared little for the accusation, but it was perhaps not entirely wrong.  
“Ah, but silence is a prudent answer” she said icily, her eyes narrowed with disdain. “Now if you will excuse me, I will return to Haven now and prepare for tomorrows departure.”  
She took a step to pass him, but he was quick to obstruct her path. “Herald, if you don’t mind, I would rather discuss this now.”  
Her eyes snapped to the swords that lay in the snow behind him. He was careful to obstruct her path to them. This time there would be no theatrical display of intimidation, he would make sure of that. “You wish to speak more?” she asked impatiently. “then speak your peace if it would ease your mind.”  
“You assaulted my men” he said accusingly, glad at last to be able to voice it aloud and have it heard. “you walked out of the fade drenched in blood that was not your own. You stalk the land astride that…beast, and seem content to disparage the Inquisition with your blatant disrespect towards the Andrastian faith! Others may overlook those facts in favour of blind faith, but I refuse to do the same.”  
Her eyes widened at his blatant accusations. She stared at him for a long moment, and he felt a strange sense of pride at the sight of her stepping back from him, momentarily stunned by his words, it seemed. He stood at least a head taller than her, and she seemed to recognize that fact now as she craned her neck to observe him. “At least there is honesty in those words” she said flatly.  
Suddenly she was on the move again, sidestepping with intent to take hold of her weapons and depart. “Have you nothing else to say on the matter then, My lady?” he said, sounding more smug than he intended to let on.  
Her nostrils flared with anger. At last, her eerie mask of calm had fallen away and revealed something more real that lay beneath. “Not quite so intimidating without a weapon in hand, I see”  
The moment the words left his mouth, he instantly regretted them. before he could even raise an arm in defense, she spun around, arm pulled back, and it shot forward like an arrow loosed from a bow, striking him in the neck with her forefingers, digging and twisting them into the bundled nerve cluster they sought. He uttered a strangled cry as a flash of pain coursed through him. He reached for his sword. 

At least, he thought he did.  
It happened so fast that it took a moment to realize exactly what she had done. She stood, watching him impassively, waiting. He tried to flex his fingers, move his legs, but nothing moved. She reached out again, pressing her index finger against his breastplate, and suddenly he was on his back, staring helplessly up at the sky. 

The despicable vixen had paralyzed him!

“You imprisoned me” she spat, pulling him upright by the straps of his breatsplate so she might look him in the eye with all her quiet fury. “you call me a savage and a murderer, you insult my family and my honour! not the inquisition, but you!”

She glanced back at the village once more and lifted herself from the ground, dragging him through the snow, propping him upright against a tree, well out of view of the guard patrols, he realized with horror. She glanced down at the sword at his side. “I should expect no less from one of your kind” she said, unsheathing the blade and raising it for examination. She eyed it with disdain, and muttered something in elvish as she swung it through the air a few times to test its weight before tossing it behind her and kicking it a good distance from him. “The templars have often made themselves the enemies of my kind, so eager as they are to suppress anything that goes against their idealism of world order.”  
Much to his surprise, there was a tinge of sadness in those words. For a brief moment amidst the panic of his restraint, he wondered when that opinion had been formed.  
“I am…no longer…templar” he wheezed, struggling to regain his breath.  
“and I am not a murderer” she said firmly, kneeling beside him, her large almond-shaped eyes fixed upon his, hard as gems. “yet we both bear the traits that mark us with distrust.”

Realization hit him like a ton of bricks.

Even without restraint, the elf still looked upon her position here as that of a prisoner, and he, it seemed, as her jailor. It was little wonder that she took such great offense to his conduct. There was a dark history between the Dalish and the Templars, the fall of the Dales was proof enough of that. Perhaps volunteering to send a unit of soldiers to her people’s doorstep had been a less calculated offer than intended.  
She was staring at him as though he were a wounded beast that she had not quite decided whether to kill or walk free. It dawned on him that it was likely reminiscent of the way he had viewed her not long ago. his life was in her hands, and if she were to strike him down, he would not be capable of stopping her.  
If she could paralyze a man with a single strike, she could surely kill one with just as little exertion. She’d left his men with injuries in her fevered state, but none dead. Defense, he realized, not assault. 

You’re a blind fool, Cullen, he thought grimly, his cheeks burning with shame.

“Ah, now you see” she said with awe, nodding her head approvingly. “Perhaps not such a pompous thug as I thought”

A pompous thug? 

He probably deserved that. In fact suddenly he was highly convinced that he did. After leaving the Templars he had begun the slow process of abandoning his sense of close mindedness. Perhaps he had carted along more than he realized.

Within just a few moments he could feel his fingers again, then his forearms, and mobility began to return to him, though he did not move.  
“I meant what I said before” he said, thankful to be able to breath without constriction once again. “It was a poor choice of words I used that day. And perhaps at the war room, now that I have considered it from a different perspective.”  
Sensing his newly found mobility returning, she rose quickly, taking a step back, watching him intently. To his surprise, she clapped her hands together in front of her mouth in a rather theatrical manner. “Enasal! He is starting to mean what he says! The world must truly be ending.”  
And despite himself, despite the humiliation of being rendered immobile and defenseless, he found it in himself to laugh at that.  
He rose unsteadily to his feet, and this time she did not move. The hostile air around them had dampened, leaving only a foreign element of the cultural contrast between them in its wake. For the first time, he realized he was no longer looking at a potential murderer. Only a woman, as stubborn as he, who would do anything to protect her people.

A hauntingly beautiful woman.

Cullen swallowed hard.

“I did not intend to disarm you, Commander” she said suddenly, jolting him from his (not “quite” professional) thoughts. “you happened upon me while I was in prayer. I had hoped to be alone with my thoughts while the people of Haven attended to their own solace.”

“You…pray with your blades in hand?” he asked, confusion heavily evident in his voice.

“My clan take no rest days” she said informatively. “We revere the gods by upholding their teachings, and beseech their blessings as such.”

She reached down and picked up her sheathed blades, tucking them neatly into her cloth belt. 

“How can you be at peace with a weapon in your hand?” he asked curiously, the notion entirely foreign to anything he had observed in his studies. 

She looked back at him, shaking her head with a secretive half-grin. “Vir’ Atishan.”

“what does that mean?”

“the way of inner peace.”

He scoffed at that, a stubborn part of him longing to debate such an idealistic concept, or at least know more about it. Before he could argue the point however, she gestured towards Haven. “You’d best return to Haven I think. Lest your men think I have thrown you into the breach”

Only a short time ago, he would have considered that to be highly likely himself. 

Now, he was not so sure.

Varric's words echoed in his mind; "try not to poke the bear too much."

Yet he had done exactly that, and felt the consequences. it didn't fuel his disdain for her as he thought it would. if anything, he had a newfound appreciation for the knowledge that despite the distrust which still wavered between them, at least she was on his side.


	19. The Chancellor's Return

Chancellor Roderick had been laying low since the inquisition’s formation, retreating from Haven once it became evident that his opinions were considerably unpopular. Seeker Penteghast had been quite assured that he would not be returning in a hurry, but it seemed he had simply been lying in wait like the snake he was, ready to spew his venomous slander the moment the opportunity arose.  
Justinia’s day of remembrance had brought comfort to many, but had also served to raise a great deal of tension between two particular factions. Not all the circle mages had rebelled, and those who had offered their services to the inquisition found little in the way of sympathy from the resident Templars within Haven.  
Both sides were determined to believe in the guilt of their natural enemies, and with the rise in hostility, the chancellor had skulked from the shadows to sow the seeds of contempt.  
Etain had just been returning from a stroll along the hillside, a pouch full of freshly procured elfroot at her side, when the tensions had finally broken. Outside the doors of the chantry, both Templars and mages had gathered, their ringleaders circling one another like a pair of pit-fighters. A large crowd surrounded them, some cheering on their favoured party, others fruitlessly urging them to see reason. Roderick stood amongst them, arms folded as he watched their display with a smug grin on his face, no doubt rejoicing over the sight of the Inquisition’s forces unraveling in favour of petty in-fighting. She observed them with curiosity for a moment, wondering if perhaps she was expected to intervene, but decided against the notion lest it serve to create more tension.  
“Your kind killed the most holy!” the Templar’s representative, who she instantly recognized as the commander’s lapdog(a lieutenant, she surmised, based on the armour he wore), ever at his side during the training of the Inquisition military, bellowed accusingly at the Mages.  
“Lies” the mage leader retorted snidely. “Your kind let her die!”  
it was a low blow, enough to shatter any peace that might have been salvaged between them. at the behest of his underlings, the lieutenant went to draw his weapon. “Shut your mouth, mage!”  
Before either side could strike a blow, the chantry doors were flung open, and commander Cullen marched out into the open air with a face like thunder as he pushed his way through the crowd. “Enough!” he shouted, shoving them back from one another.  
“Knight-captain!” the lieutenant exclaimed, stumbling backwards and offering a shaky salute.  
The commander rounded on him instantly, glaring at him furiously. “That is NOT my title! We are not Templars any longer” he said sharply, pointing a reprimanding finger in his direction. “We are all part of the inquisition”  
The Templars reluctantly backed away, and he swung around quickly to face the mages. They were even quicker to withdraw, shrinking from his commanding stance like shadows from the sunlight, no doubt used to such a display from their time in the circle. 

“And what does that mean, exactly?”

Chancellor Roderick sauntered smugly through the crowd, looking immensely pleased with himself. The commander eyed him with disdain. “Back already, chancellor? Haven’t you done enough?”

Roderick merely offered a sly grin before turning back to the crowd. “Im curious, commander, as to how your inquisition and it’s “Herald” will restore order as you’ve promised.”

“of course you are” she heard him mutter under his breath. He waved his hands at the crowd dismissively, ignoring the chancellor’s obvious attempts to rise him. “Back to your duties, all of you”

The rabble reluctantly dispersed, going back to their duties with gossiping whispers in tow. Only the chancellor remained, determined to undermine whatever sense of authority the commander held, it seemed.  
He was a weak looking man, clad only in his bureaucratic attire. He wore no weapon at his waist, as it was not in keeping with the chantry’s “peacekeeping” ways. Why anyone would tolerate his presence was beyond her, though she noted the distinct sense of quiet anger in the commander’s stance. He was a stark contrast to Roderick, heavily armoured and well armed, with a distinct advantage in height. Even amongst his own kind he seemed noticeably tall. His armour was built to withstand the cold, all steel and fur clad in rich burgundy velveteen and dark leather. A heavily detailed steel helm was tucked under his arm, bearing a remarkable likeness to a lions head, adorned with the same red and black dyed fur that matched the mantle around his shoulders.  
“A lion?” she muttered under her breath. “More akin to an overly-groomed cat.”  
The man exuded order, from the finely polished steel of his armour to his short, neatly combed golden hair. She wondered idly just how long the Templars trained their recruits in the finer points of meticulous grooming. A waste of time, she thought grimly, for their behavior was not in keeping with their appearances from her experience.  
Despite their encounter the day before, despite resolving at least some of the hostility between them, she still did not trust him, and the feeling was likely mutual. She was the unconventional rogue agent that tipped the balance in his orderly world, and his staunch loyalty to the inquisition was not a correlative feeling for her, and he seemed well aware of it.  
She pushed herself from her perch on the stone wall, where she had seated herself to observe the tussle between the mages and Templars. However little she cared for the commander, she cared even less for the Chancellor, and was eager to see him driven off.  
“The mages and Templars were already at war. Now they’re blaming each other for the Divine’s death” Cullen remarked pointedly.  
The Chancellor scoffed at his words, shaking his head. “which is why we require a proper authority to guide them back to order.”  
“Someone like you, perhaps?” Etain said smoothly, stalking past him so silently that he jumped at the sound of her voice. “a random cleric who was clearly not important enough to have been at the conclave?”  
“Better I than a wild heathen and a rebel Inquisition” He retorted when he had composed himself once more, his voice wavering ever so slightly.  
She glared back at him for a long moment before turning from him dismissively and addressing the commander. “You allow him to disparage this Inquisition so freely?”  
“Clearly your Templar knows where to draw the line” the chancellor remarked with a haughty snort.  
Cullen narrowed his eyes at Roderick and sighed. “He’s toothless. There’s no point turning him into a martyr simply because he runs at the mouth. The Chancellor is a good indicator of what to expect in Val Royeaux, however.”  
She turned back to Roderick and shook her head. “it seems you have achieved your wish then, Chancellor. I’m to face my trial after all.”  
“Best prepare yourself for the blame you will be so rightly assigned, “Herald”.” He remarked icily.  
With a low growl she advanced on him, only a few steps but enough to have the man retreating quickly. “we shall see soon enough” she hissed.  
Roderick cleared his throat and glared at her furiously, shaking his head as he hurriedly set off down the path. “bloody beast of a she-elf” she heard him mutter, before he disappeared from sight.  
She rolled her shoulders back and shot a glance at the commander, who gave her a rather disapproving look. “I’m surprised you didn’t turn your blade on him, Herald. “  
She frowned, raising a brow at him. “He is armed with nothing but words” she said firmly. “it would be a dishonor to raise a weapon against one who is defenseless.”  
She saw his eyes drop down to his own blade for but a moment before snapping back up again, grasping the meaning of her words, judging by the surprise in his expression. “A commendable way of thinking.”  
“The chancellor wishes to see my head on a spike, then” she remarked coldly, digging her heel into the snow.  
“He wants a scapegoat” Cullen retorted. “Much like his fellow chantry bureaucrats he’s looking for someone to place the blame on, an easy answer to the Divine’s death.”  
Etain let out a long sigh. “Well, I hope we find solutions and not a cathedral full of chancellors then”  
Much to her surprise, Cullen grinned at that. “The stuff of nightmares!”  
And before she could stop herself, she was laughing, as was he. It was a split second moment, and it died away as soon as their eyes met. He cleared his throat awkwardly, and she looked away from him and intently searched the village for signs of Varric and Solas. “I ought to find my travelling companions” she said shortly.  
“I, er…believe you’ll find Cassandra at the stables” he offered quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll keep the peace here while you and the others appeal to the chantry in Val Royeaux.”  
“Thank you, Commander” she said levelly, offering a nod of thanks before she set out for the gates. “Hunt well”


	20. A trial, of sorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Etain faces the trial that never came to pass, and a natural enemy makes an appearance.

Val Royeaux was a nightmare of frivolity and superficiality, from its gilded gates to its alabaster cobblestones. The bells still tolled out in mourning for the Divine, thrumming through the warm air as Etain and her companions crossed the bridge that lead to the heart of the city.   
“The city still mourns” Cassandra said wistfully, looking incredibly guarded as they approached the marbled archways that towered above them.  
Etain’s fingers rested gently on the hilt of her sword. She felt uneasy here, staring up at the intricately carved, golden statues depicting fierce, snarling lions, their eyes, though lifeless, seeming to stare down at her accusingly.   
Two richly-dressed city residents strolled idly across the bridge, chatting intimately amongst themselves before catching sight of their approach. The woman, adorned in a stupidly lopsided, feathered hat, gasped pathetically at the sight of her, ducking behind her equally useless looking male companion before they both hurried away from them.   
Your people uproot the graves of the elvhen to make room for this city, yet you cannot bear the sight of one walking its streets, she thought grimly.   
“Just a guess, Seeker” Varric ventured. “but I think they know who we are”  
“your skills of observation never fail to surprise me, Varric” The seeker huffed in response.   
Up ahead, a scout bearing the Inquisition’s insignia scrambled up the path towards them. “My lady Herald” she wheezed, falling to one knee before her.   
“You’re one of Lelliana’s people” Cassandra said, scrutinizing the young woman. “What have you found?”  
The scout shakily rose to her feet and pointed to the heart of the city. “The chantry mothers await you but..” she paused, fidgeting awkwardly for a moment before continuing. “ So do a great many Templars”  
Etain felt her blood run cold. No one had said anything about the attendance of Templars, and beside her, Cassandra looked equally shocked. “There are Templars here?”  
“People seem to think the Templars will protect them…from the inquisition. They are gathered on the other side of the market. I think that’s where they intend to meet you.”  
Cassandra looked to her, almost worriedly, awaiting a sign that might lend some approval to press on. Reluctantly, she nodded. She had been steeling herself to deflect the accusations of the chantry, not the blades of their hounds. She had thought that with their detachment, they would be a common enemy to all. Now that they had presumably returned to their original duty, it added far too much complication to matters in her mind.   
A huge crowd had turned out to hear their chantry mothers speak. The marketplace was alive with hushed whispers and idle gossip. The ornately dressed guards watched their approach carefully, seeming all too aware of their identities, eyes narrowed through the slits in their golden lion helms, which she noted with some faint amusement. Their armour was so intricate it made the commanders garb look like that of a poor village watchman.   
The reaction of the city’s inhabitants was a mix of fear and unabashed disdain. With their guards on the watch, their words were anything but guarded. Etain held her head high, maintaining as much pride as possible amidst the shouts of “heretic!” and “Murderer!”. She had heard such slander once before, but this situation was entirely different. Although she was not bound, nor escorted by any jailors, these people saw an enemy before them, a natural enemy. Cassandra was on guard beside her, watching the crowd for any signs of revolt. The Inquisition’s war council had expressed high concern over this particular matter. The commander had evidently been highly opposed to the idea, ever determined to protect the image of his beloved inquisition, but also quick to point out the obvious issue of Orlesian close-mindedness. As much as she might have disliked him, his point was valid. And unlike the hostile situation between them, she could not so easily deal with the residents of Val Royeaux. Not enough dark corners in this entire city to deal with these ones, she thought ruefully. Every action, every step, ever breath, all fell under the scrutiny of thousands of hungry eyes.  
As Etain shouldered her way through the crowd, her eyes fell upon the gallows, where a single empty noose swayed ominously in the breeze. Whatever Cassandra said, however the ambassador had tried to dress this occasion up as a simple peace talk, she knew this was a trial, at least in the eyes of the majority. And just for the occasion, she had oiled her hair with blended herbs at dawn before departure, the old custom of warriors preparing for the possibility of death. So often used before battle, in the days of strife long ago, but it still held the same meaning to her. She was entering the pit of vipers, and if they turned on her she would defend herself until she fell, and face Uthenera and the Creators with pride.   
“Pay them no heed” Cassandra said assuredly, shooting disapproving glances at those brave few commoners who uttered shameless racial slurs at their passing.   
Etain was glad to have the Seeker at her side. She’d heard frightful tales of her kind in the past, but aside from her avid piety, she was a good and rational woman.   
At the head of the crowd, the people kneeled in prayer before the podium where the chantry officials stood. Two bureaucratic types that resembled Roderick in weakness stood guardedly behind the woman who appeared to be addressing the crowd. A Templar stood to one side, casting his eyes across the crowd. He looked young, and remarkably unsure of himself for a chantry defender, given the way he shifted so uncomfortably in his place. He was the only Templar Etain could see in the area, but she felt sure there were more lying in wait nearby.   
“Good people of Val Royeux, hear me!” Announced the chantry mother in her thick, Orlesian accent. “Together we mourn our divine. Her naïve and beautiful heart, silenced by treachery”  
Etain and her companions had edged their way to the front of the crowd, and the revered mother’s eyes fell upon her, the look of smug triumph spreading across her raven-like features. “you wonder what will become of her murderer?” she continued, pointing an accusing finger at Etain. “well wonder no more.”  
As though they had not already realized who she was, despite the painfully obvious evidence between her sharp ears and vallaslin, or the Seekers proud insignia that was painted on her dark steel chestplate, the crowd turned their gazes upon them with a clamour of almost theatrical gasps and murmurs.   
“Behold the so-called “Herald of Andraste”, claiming to rise where our beloved fell!”  
The revered mother strutted around the podium, hands raised to the sky. “We say this is a false prophet! A wicked, heathen she-elf sent to subvert the makers word!”  
The crowd cheered her on, swayed by her smooth, confident speech. She had every single one of them in the palm of her hand. Varric and Solas had disappeared into the crowd, evidently not wishing to draw any uncouth attention to the nature of their arrival. Cassandra shot her a pleading glance, willing her to say something in defense of the Inquisition, of herself. Etain felt her heart thudding rapidly in her chest, more anxious than she had been in a long, long time. Never in her life had she expected to be in this position, and she was far from prepared. She opened her mouth to speak, but the uproar of the crowd threatened to drown out her defence. Above her, the revered mother gazed at her with a cold smugness, knowing the power she had so easily gained over the crowd. Etain’s fingers tightened around her blade, angered at her powerlessness here. Cursing under her breath, she raised her challenging gaze to meet that of the revered mother.  
“Enough!” she bellowed, so loudly that the crowd had suddenly fallen silent in shock, and admittedly she was shocking herself too. “I will not stand her and listen to these self-serving lies! We came here to talk!”  
The seeker’s eyes were wide but approving, and bolstered by the momentary silence. “It’s true! The inquisition seeks only to end this madness before its too late!”  
Although the revered mother had also looked momentarily shocked, the sound of heavy steel clanging against cobblestones made it all too aware that she had more to back her claims than mere words. “It is already too late!”  
A large unit of Templars marched through the streets, heading for the podium where the deplorable woman awaited them almost with open arms. “The Templars have returned to the chantry! They will face this “inquisition”, and the people will be safe once more!”  
Etain watched them closesly, especially the old, grey-haired Templar at their head. He had the look of a man who would kill less in the name of his chantry but more for his own ends. The revered mother looked out at the crowd with triumph, looking sure of her victory now. But in her pride, she did not notice the leather-clad Templar that swiftly marched up behind her. Etain watched with absolute shock as he cocked his fist back and swiftly landed a blow to the back of her head, knocking her to the ground with a hard thud. The people gasped in horror as the Templar’s leader stepped over the womans unconscious form and placed a reassuring hand on the young Templars shoulder. “still yourself brother, she is beneath us” Etain heard him say casually, as though his mans actions were anything but despicable. The young man opened his mouth to protest, but glanced away from him shamefully, unwilling to go against his master’s actions it seemed.  
The crowd, fearful at the display of their supposed saviors, scattered from the marketplace like birds, filtering into nearby buildings as though they would be the next targets of their assault. Only a few stragglers remained, slinking into the shadows to observe from a safe distance what might happen next.   
Etain looked up at the Templars, shaking her head with disbelief. “You assault the representatives of your own chantry?” she asked with an incredulous snort.  
Their leader turned his gaze upon her and smirked. “We do not lower ourselves to justify our actions to your likes, knife-ear.”  
He gestured to his men and they gathered once more into an orderly formation behind him as he marched from the podium to take leave of them, and Cassandra was quick to follow him. “Lord Seeker Lucius, it is imperative that we speak with-“  
“you will not address me” he said dismissively, not so much as casting a glance at her despite the clear familiarity between them. Cassandra would not relent, hurrying to block his path and speak her piece.

“Lord seeker?” she asked with confusion, bewildered by his dismissal.

The man came to a halt and rounded on her, his empty eyes observing her as though she were a stain upon his boot. “Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andraste’s prophet. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Cassandra, normally so bold and outspoken, shrunk back from him like a scolded child, her cheeks flushed with shame. The Lord Seeker shook his head and narrowed his eyes at the few observers that remained, peeking out from their hiding places like mice hiding from the claws of a hungry cat. “you should all be ashamed!” he bellowed loudly. “the Templars failed no one when they left the chantry to purge the mages! You are the ones who have failed! You who’d leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear!”

Etain felt a surge of rising hatred, a familiar sensation long buried deep within her through so may hard-learned years of discipline. Under the scrutinizing eyes of the city, she willed herself with all her force not to draw her blade.  
“if you came to appeal to the chantry, you are too late” the Lord Seeker proclaimed. “the only destiny that demands respct is mine!”

Unable to defend her honour by her own laws, she could only fight for her own honour with words with words. “you seek to raise yourself to exaltation in the midst of so great a threat?” she hissed loudly. “You ignore the breach in the sky to favour your own avarice?”  
Lucius looked at her with great disdain, entirely unphased by her words. “And this is the one they call Herald of our beloved Andraste?” he scoffed. “ You have no power, savage. I am no fool like the peasants who swoon at the false tales of heroism your rebel cause spreads throughout this land.”  
The young Templar she had seen earlier finally stepped up. “Lord seeker, what if she really is-“  
His leather clad companion put a firm hand on his shoulder. “You are called to a higher purpose, brother. Do not question”  
The triumphant grin on Lucius’ face was infuriating, but it was a fruitless endeavor to tear a man who thought himself so high from his narcissism without a real fight. All that remained in their favour now was the obvious fall from grace he and his sycophants had inflicted so willingly upon themselves.   
“I will make the Templar order a power that stands alone against the void! We deserve recognition, independence! You have shown me nothing, and the inquisition…less than nothing”  
He turned to his companions, whos fists thumped audibly against the steel of their breastplates in recognition. “Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection. We march!”

Etain looked on with dissipating anger at the sight of their departure. The Templars would remain her enemy, her natural enemy, and in a way, it was an eerie comfort.


	21. Change in the wind

With the departure of their short-lived saviours, the denizens of Val Royeaux littered the streets and the marketplace was alive with their avid discussions and fresh gossip. Rattled by the frightening display that had occurred only moments ago, the people barely noticed the one they had originally come to observe, which gave Etain and her companions a few moments to gather their thoughts.   
The guards resumed their posts and soon the merchants followed, attempting to salvage some effort at trade, though to little avail when their potential customers were far too occupied with idle chatter. Upon their wooden podium, the chantry representatives were tending to their Revered Mother, who was waking groggily from her unconscious state after the Templar’s vulgar display.   
Remembering their original intention, Etain begrudgingly surmised that a possibility of appeal may yet be salvaged. The woman was mightily humbled, and it showed in the crimson of her cheeks, flushed with shame from the drastically diminished power of her previous words. Approaching her felt like approaching a dying beast, one that was favouring death over continued battle. She lay hunched on the ground, staring up at them with great hostility, most especially Cassandra.   
“This victory must please you greatly, seeker Cassandra” she hissed, as toothless as a senile hound.   
The Seeker, still thrown by their encounter with the one Etain could only assume had been her superior, was quick to retort without sympathy. “we came her only to speak with the mothers. This is not our doing, but yours”  
“And you had no part in forcing our hand? Do not delude yourself.” She sighed heavily, a hand clutching her side. “Now we have been shown up by our own Templars, in front of everyone. And my fellow clerics have scattered to the wind, along with their convictions.”  
It was a victory by default for the inquisition, but Etain had little sense of pride over the situation. She had never been taught to feel pride over a situation where victory was not achieved by ones own hand. Though the thought of chancellor Roderick’s reaction to the news would certainly be something to lift her spirits, of that she had no doubt.   
Her two subordinates were entirely useless, kneeling in prayer beside her with fervent, fearful recitations pouring from their lips. Against her better judgement, Etain knelt at her side, and although the woman made a momentary attempt at recoiling from her touch, she allowed her to help her into a less painful position. She felt the Revered Mothers eyes upon her, questioning and bewildered at the gentleness of her gesture. “Just tell me one thing” her bony fingers wrapped around her wrist, suddenly and insistently. “Do you truly believe you are the makers chosen?  
Etain looked down at the woman, so frail now without the comfort of her own convictions, and felt a genuine pang of pity. It had taken only a single moment for her high status to be reduced to a crumbling ruin at the hands of the ones she had placed her faith in, and they had abandoned their charges without a second thought. “I am no more than an elf, that is what I believe”  
The Revered Mother furrowed her brow, mulling over the plainness of her words before bowing her head solemnly. “I suppose, in its own way, it is a comfort”  
There was a sudden earnestness in her tone, and she seemed to disappear into her own train of thought, silent and contemplative. With a nod to her companions, they left the chantry officials and sought a quiet corner in the marketplace to consider their options.   
“Well, that was…interesting” Varric let out a long winded breath, hands on his hips as he glanced at his surroundings. “Nice fella, that “Lord Seeker””  
“Has Lord Seeker Lucius gone mad?” Cassandra exclaimed. “He was always a decent man, never given to ambition or grandstanding. This is very bizarre”  
If ever there had been an ounce of decency in that man, Etain had trouble picturing it, as much as with any Templar. Talk of decency was a fine thing for those on the side of such a militant force, but not their enemies. Though it mattered little now it seemed, the Templars had just made a fine handful of enemies for themselves on this day. Though no doubt the news of it would not be received quite so joyously by the Inquisition.   
“There are other options at least” Etain ventured, leaning against the wooden fence.   
“I would not write their order off so quickly” Cassandra retorted staunchly.  
“There must be some amongst them who have seen what he has become.”  
Etain merely responded with a grunt of acknowledgement, not wishing for further debate on the matter. Whatever decision the Inquisition came to regarding its future allies, she hoped there was some semblance of sense amongst them to decide against pursuing the Templars as potential allies. 

It seemed that their presence was once again attracting attention, though not the negative sort that Etain might have expected. A secretive merchant ushered them over to her stall, careful not to draw a great deal of attention to herself from others. She was no more than a simple food merchant, though her garb was as rich as anyones in this city of splendor. Sympathetic to the inquisitions cause, and decidedly open-minded about the situation compared to others. She was quick to point out the most assured struggle with supplies the people of Haven was having whilst they still fought for allies to provide steady trade, and her observation was astute. Etain had made sure to inspect that same situation during one of her late night wanderings, an old habit from numerous summer hunts. The situation was more dire than the war council ever let on, and this merchant gave the promise of a steady supply lines. There was an obvious air of dislike for the noble class in her tone, and her willingness to lend aid to a force seen as troublesome and rebellious who bore the intention of aiding the people. Her actions would come with consequences if she were discovered, but she avidly desired to play a part in the Inquisitions rise. It was an admirable and generous offer, one which Etain was happy to take. The more the Inquisition rose, the sooner the situation with the breach would be rectified and home would soon be in sight.

When she had concluded business with the merchant, yet another offer was broached by a young man bearing the colours of an Orlesian noble, presenting an elegant letter from a highly respected socialite, given the expressive and neatly penned message requesting a personal meeting. Etain, mightily confused by the sudden interest of such varying individuals, could only nod and accept the writ….before an arrow struck the tree not far from where she stood, a message bound tightly to its shaft. 

Interest in her affairs, it seemed, were now even reigning down from the sky.


	22. The Outriders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Etain struggles with the idea of supervision, and Haven plays host to a most unexpected guest.

“You are cordially invited to my salon held at the Chateau of Duke Bastien De Ghislain.

Yours,  
Vivienne De Fer  
First enchanter of Montsimmard  
Enchanter to the Imperial Court”

Etain frowned as she scanned the contents of the message, both out of confusion over both the sudden interest this reputable woman had in her, as well as her lack of understanding of what a “Salon” might be. She could only surmise that it was some sort of gathering, and already she was dreading the prospect of attending.  
The second message was a fine contrast, taken from an arrow that jutted out from the bough of the apple tree she had been standing next to. As soon as she had heard the twang of a bow, a sound so familiar she could have been half-deaf and still have known its source, she had felt a pang of hope that it might be one of her own clan, that they might have known of her destination and come to deliver a response. That hope was dashed as soon as she took note of the shortness of the arrow, loosed from a shortbow no doubt, or at least a shemlen longbow. Neither held a candle to the craftsmanship of a Dalish bow nor its fine arrows, thicker and stronger like small, deadly spears. Dismissing the arrow itself, she unfurled the message attached to its shaft.

“People say you’re special. I want to help.  
And I can bring everyone. 

There’s a baddie in Val Royeaux. I hear he wants to hurt you. Have a search for red things in the market, the docks, round the café, and maybe you’ll meet him first. Bring swords.

“Friends of Red Jenny”

Underneath the message there was an barely-helpful scribble that she assumed was intended to be a map, and she was just about capable of following its instructions. Whoever this person, or people, was, she was tentative about the idea of running around this strange city looking for “red things” after the display that had just occurred, when her appearance was so freshly etched into the minds of everyone, and when, if this letter was correct, someone had a mind to kill her. Sensing the inquisitive gazes of her companions, she passed both notes to Cassandra in the hopes that she might make sense of the situation.  
The Seeker read through both letters with an indignant sigh, handing them back to her and shaking her head. “It would seem our return to Haven will be delayed” she said. “No doubt there will be danger ahead, we ought to send word of this to the others.”  
“You could go back, if you like” Etain offered. “I can see to these matters myself”  
“I would not think to leave you alone in this place now” Cassandra said firmly, dismissing the idea entirely.  
The Seeker behaved like a bodyguard in every sense of the word, and although she harboured more respect for her than most, Etain did not care much for such an idea. She preferred to being alone, where she could do things her own way, as it had always been in the past. Though, she amended, this time things were different. This time people knew her face, knew of her presence, and for good or for ill, she was now under the scrutiny of an entire city.  
Begrudgingly she shrugged. “As you wish. We ought to see to this…Red Jenny business first. I’m interested to know more of the one who wishes my death”

“As you wish, Herald” Cassandra said agreeably. 

Etain was truly growing tired of that title. 

 

“We’ve received word from Val Royeaux”

Cullen had been watching a training routine diligently from the low ramparts when Lelliana appeared at his side. He looked up, surprised at the grimness in the nightingales usually neutral tone. “and?”

Lelliana held up the parchment in her hand and shook her head. “Apparently the Revered Mothers were not the only ones awaiting the Herald’s arrival.”

She held out the scouts report to him and he snatched it impatiently from her hand, scanning its contents for the meaning of her words. He had been against the idea of the Herald entering the city at a time like this, but as usual he was outnumbered by the opinions of the others. While the rest of them seemed so eager to place Lady Lavellan in the public eye, he was of the opposite mindset. It made her an easy target for those who sought to crush the Inquisitions rise before it truly began to take shape.  
He half expected the report to have some dire news of riots and bloodshed, and the prospect had his heart thrumming with dread. 

The truth was far from what he had thought.

“This cannot be” he exclaimed, shaking his head with absolute bewilderment. 

“I’m afraid it is” She replied, hands clasped behind her back. 

He shot a quick glance around the area, making sure no one might overhear their conversation, but thankfully the soldiers were still engrossed in their practice. “Templars, in Val Royeaux?” he hissed. “what were they thinking making such a display in front of so many? Have they gone mad?!”

“We ought to wait on the Heralds return to find out more. Cassandra may have more answers with regards to the situation, especially if the Lord Seeker is involved.”

“I pray it is not as your scouts have said” he said grimly. “when will they return?”  
“Apparently the Herald has business to attend to before they can depart from the city.”

He scoffed at that, wondering what business a Dalish elf might have in a city she likely never set foot in. Given the situation, it would have been far more advisable to return with great haste. Though from the clarity of the report he was at least thankful that the chantry’s slander had been quelled for the time being.  
He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers grazing over the small, finger-sized bruises there. Although his distrust for the Herald had been sizably quelled following their previous encounter, she was still a deadly force who's motivations were not entirely clear to him, nor to anyone for that matter. That she had not borne her blade against those who spoke out against her had been nothing short of a miracle in his eyes, though he was starting to wonder if she reserved that sense of hostility for him. It was not a thought he cared to dwell on, and yet he had been doing so ever since that day.

“We ought to consider what this might mean for any future al…”

Lelliana’s words trailed off into nothingness as she craned her neck to observe something in the distance. “Is that the Herald now?”

A young guard came fumbling through the snow to where they stood, exhausted from fighting against the lack of firmness beneath his feet as he bowed low. “C-commander! Riders approaching from the southeast!”

“Riders? Is it the Herald?”

He shook his head vehemently. “No sir” he said breathlessly, as though struggling to explain the situation. “Elves, ten outriders by my count”

“Dalish elves?” Lelliana asked, with interest, and the scout nodded again. 

When she offered no orders, the scout gave her a confused look. “Should we…should we stop them?”

Cullen furrowed his brow, momentarily unsure of what orders he might give. The Herald herself had vouched for the honesty of her clan, but was it possible that they had received her response with some misunderstanding, or worse yet, have a more hostile intention for travelling so far? it was inconceivable to think their coming was a mere coincidence. Perhaps he had been right all along, perhaps the Herald had purposely sent for them. “Let them pass. I would know what business they have coming here” 

The sound of hoofbeats confirmed the arrival of the Dalish outriders. The travellers galloped through the snow towards their defences. The labourers who had been chopping wood in the treescape not far from them looked up, bleary-eyed from a long days work, and suddenly they were fearfully backing away from their tools and hurrying back towards the safety of the walls. 

Ten Hart stags moved confidently through the snow, each bearing a fur-clad rider on their back, ignoring the frightened villager’s retreat. Cullen stared at them, mouth agape at their sudden arrival. The soldiers ceased their exertions and looked to him like worried children, waiting on some word of guidance. Wishing to avoid more panic from the village residents, he marched hurriedly from his perch on the ramparts, Lelliana in tow at his heels, until he reached the gates. “Soldiers, form up!" He commanded loudly, and they were quick to take their place behind him, weapons sheathed but hands primed at their hilts. 

The riders pulled to a halt, spread out in a neat formation, the expanse of their stag’s antlers forming a protective barrier. Their force was small compared to the Inquisition ranks, but they did not bear the appearance of untrained peasants or sellswords, and they were each armed with more than a single weapon, not to mention well armoured in thick leathers and heavy fur. He scrutinized every one of them, both men and women, but he did not need to look twice to know their leader. At the head of their band sat a grim, weathered elf, bare chested save for the huge pelt that draped over his shoulders, the beasts head forming a fearsome helmet that hid the majority of his features beneath its preserved jaw. It was the pelt of a wolf, he realized, its dead face twisted into a horrifying snarl preserved from the day of its death. The large leather strap that stretched across his chest held the huge,elegant greataxe that was fixed against his back. For an elf, he was huge and well muscled, and Cullen had never seen the likes before in his life. in his hand he held a longspear bearing a tapering flag at its head, its crimson expanse billowing in the gentle breeze, making the white hart crest emblazoned in its centre gallop against the movement. 

Cullen was suddenly wishing he had memorized that elven greeting phrase that seemed to have pleased the Herald so greatly when she had first entered the war room, for these elves held stern expressions that made his attempts to read their humour or intentions difficult. 

Clearing his throat, he bowed respectfully. "Greetings to you Ser. Have you some business in Haven?"

The question sounded wholly stupid as soon as he'd uttered it, but he felt their eyes upon him, fierce and uncompromising. their leader rapped the base of his spear against the snow raising his head to regard him. A long, oiled braid of silver tapered so far down his back that it coiled like a length of rope against the saddle seat, adorned with bells that jingled at the movement of his head. "Andaran' atishan. Clan Lavellan sends glad tidings to you, Inquisition" His voice was rough and firm, his tone wholly lacking the pleasantness of his words. "We have received your message of goodwill, and are pleased to know our kinsman is alive and well. As such, Keeper Ishtamaethoriel, leader of clan Lavellan would have us declare allegiance to your cause, and impart our blessing upon she who is blood of our blood for her continued stay in this...place."

The old elf leaned forward in his saddle, eyes narrowed at their meagre defences, as though mentally picking holes and weak points in everything his gaze fell upon, including his soldiers. His gaze then fell upon him, and was no kinder in its scrutiny. 

Cullen felt his heart sink in his chest. Silver hair, and eyes that glinted like solid gems illuminated under lamplight. Amethysts, specifically. 

"Tell me" the elder man said in a low growl. "where is my daughter?"


	23. The Friends of Red Jenny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mages extend their hand of friendship, but all friends come at a cost. another informant makes herself known, and offers the aid of a peculiar group.

She followed the trail of “red things” as the note suggested, scraps of information that barely made sense, plucked from obscure locations where noblemen and fishmongers looked on as she knelt to inspect them. She found the note beneath the table in the café, a mere scrap of paper wrapped in red silk, suggesting that someone was indeed seeking her out. She found the key by the docks, nestled within a red handkerchief, lifted from a drunkard who swore against her, so far as the unsigned note stated. Lastly, the old red sock that harboured a torn piece of parchment, that when fitted together made the obscure clues at last hold some meaning. A place, a time, a key. She may not have known the city, but Etain was a born and bred pathfinder, and she would find the way in little time.  
She had left the others at the café, and though Cassandra had been reluctant to leave her side for even so short a space of time, she had begrudgingly agreed to the logic of it. A ragtag group of rebels sifting through fishing nets and flowerpots would have been an odd sight indeed to the prim and proper residents of the city of pleasure. A Dalish elf was perhaps more excusable as an individual, given the vast difference in culture. She need only have glanced down at her dirty lamellar garb to have grasped that concept.  
After briefing her companions on her findings, they set off for the southwest bridge. Etain was all too aware that they were not alone, though she knew by instinct it was not the city watch, nor the assassin that sought to end her life. It was a mage, an older elven woman with short hair, clad in rich robes of blue dark blue linen and cut with fur trimmings. Etain had noticed her in the marketplace, unmistakable as the only other person who did not fit into the extravagant fashion of Orlais. She had shrunk away into the shadows at the mere sight of the Templars approach, far too quickly to be an unrecognizable face to them.  
Although she sought to remain unnoticed, she walked with confidence that suggested the assurance of rank. “Might I have a moment of your time?”she asked smoothly, her voice thick with an Orlesian accent.  
At her side, Cassandra was eying her with confusion, before her expression turned to one of recognition. “ Grand Enchanter Fiona?”  
“Leader of the mage rebellion” Solas interjected, shooting a suspicious glance at the woman. “Is it not dangerous for you to be here?”  
“I heard of this gathering, and I wanted to see the Herald of Andraste with my own eyes.”  
“Look then, if is your pleasure. Though I would imagine you have come for more than that”  
The grand enchanter offered a smile that did not meet her eyes. “If it is help you seek, perhaps my people are the wiser option.”  
“You were not at the Conclave, Grand Enchanter. That is surprising, given the nature of its purpose” Etain said guardedly, speaking the words she felt sure the others were thinking.  
“Yes, you were supposed to be” Cassandra agreed. “and yet somehow you avoided death.”  
Fiona merely nodded, unscathed by their suspicion. “as did the Lord Seeker, as you have no doubt noticed. We both sent envoys in our stead, in case it was a trap. I won’t pretend I’m not glad to live. I lost many dear friends that day”  
The woman looked to her, sharp, observant eyes bearing deeply into her own. “It disgusts me to think the Templars will get away with it. I’m hoping you wont let them.”  
Etain knew the words should have meant more to her, held greater meaning of shared hatred that might solidify a friendship between them. 

But they did not.

Grand Enchanter Fiona had the look of an immensely clever woman, one who was as comfortable pouring over old tomes as she was playing at the political games of noblemen. The sharp points of her ears were the one thing that spoke of any level ground between them, and this mage was quick to play on it.

A clever tactic, to be sure, but Etain had little appetite for manipulation. 

“And what do the mages seek in exchange for their aid?” she enquired with a terse smile. 

The mage’s brow quirked. “Oh, but I haven’t promised the inquisition our help yet. Consider this an invitation to Redcliffe; come meet with the mages. An alliance could help us both, after all.”

And with that she offered them all a curt nod, her sharp grey eyes illuminated by the setting sun. “I hope to see you there, au revoir, my lady Herald”

Cassandra watched her intently as she slipped back into the marketplace, quiet as a cat as she disappeared into the shadows. The Seekers own eyes were intent and questioning. “We should send news of this to Haven. For now, let us focus on the task at hand.”

Etain glanced up at the parapets where the golden animal statues set their lifeless gazes upon the world below. This city had eyes in every quarter, eyes that observed and plotted and followed every movement and motion. The very thought made her skin crawl, but night was falling, and soon the cities pretty mask would fall away and its true, sinister nature would creep out from the subtle cracks in the gold and alabaster cobblestones. 

The thought might have been a daunting one for some, those who feared the ruthless cutthroats that thrived in alleys and doorways, but it was nothing new to her. 

 

The city was a winding maze of back alleys and bridges, each new path forking into a new set of destinations, but Etain kept her mind on the maps location, her mind free of diversion. Apart from a few drunken louts lumbering dozily from the Taverns in seach of their homes, or at least some place to lay their head in failure of that, the streets were relatively quiet. The darkness was only illuminated by the lamps that glimmered in the windowsills of houses they passed along the way. The streets here lacked the elegance of those in the busy marketplace, for they were littered with straw and undelivered crates, stacked awkwardly in narrow passages and bound tightly with rope, likely awaiting passage on some ship anchored in the harbor. 

“Hold up” she whispered, her ears pricking at the sound of shuffled feet in the clearing ahead. 

She saw the flicker of lamplight, a lit brazier hidden behind a stack of crates. With her back to the wall, she edged closer to the wrought iron gate, peering through the bars. The large space ahead lay empty, but the sound suggested otherwise. With a gesture to her companions, she placed her hand on the sword at her side. She looked to Cassandra, nodding silently before both of them rushed into the open space, weapons drawn, as the men who lay in wait sprang from their hiding places. “It’s the Herald!” one of the men shouted, charging at her with his sword drawn.  
At least they know who I am, in a sense, she thought as she parried his assault with ease, sweeping his blade to one side and bringing it around swiftly to pierce through his side.  
Whoever they were, they had gravely miscalculated their odds with so few men in tow. There were enough their to give them a fight to be sure, but they were no more than mercenaries. Orlesian-born, yes, but they wore no house sigils to suggest a refined upbringing. Men who fought for coin and lacked a sense of true honour often died with nothing, and these men were no exception.  
Archers on the parapets loosed their arrows upon them as they dealt with the swordsmen, ricocheting against Cassandras shield. Varric wound Bianca’s drawstring tight and let loose a volley of bolts at them, striking them down with expert speed. She shot him an approving glance as she ran the last remaining archer through, kicking his limp body down from his perch.  
“Not the last of them, I should expect” said Solas, artfully swinging his staff back and leaning against it as he surveyed the mess of blood and bodies.  
“certainly not, but we’re close to their source” she said, wiping the blood from her blade with the back of her gauntlet.  
She looked up at the blue door that stood atop the steps ahead. It seemed foolish to walk right into an obvious trap, but it could hardly be considered a trap if she knew about it. With a sigh, she placed her hands on the ornate door, giving it a hearty push. A firebolt greeted her arrival, careening past her and exploding on contact with the wooden door, splintering it slightly.  
A masked nobleman stood alone in the clearing, his golden mask glowing in the light of the fire that played at his fingertips. “Herald of Andraste!” he gasped almost theatrically. “How much did expend to discover me? It must have weakened the inquisition immeasurably!”  
Whoever this man was, he looked about as remarkable as any of the generic noblemen of Orlais. She looked to Cassandra, who merely shrugged in response.  
“Whoever you are, I’m certain we’ve never met before” she said tersely, indignant at the pompousness of his swagger.  
“You don’t fool me! I’m too important for this to be an accident!” he scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. “my efforts will survive in victories against you elsewhere!”  
a loud dying cry echoed through the air, and suddenly a body came crashing through the door, striking the ground with a loud thud. An arrow was deeply imbedded in his back. The mysterious nobleman swerved around with a startled gasp as the assailant made herself known. A shorthaired, stout young elf came striding through the doorway with her bow drawn, a coy little smirk spread across her round face. She raised her brows in amusement at the unknown mage. “Say whaaaat” she cooed, arrow pointed squarely at his head.  
The nobleman skulked towards her with a fireball ready in hand. “What is the-“  
Her arrow was true to its target, imbedding itself within the gap in his mask, striking him in the eye. He fell to the floor with a defiant gurgle and grew still, blood trickling onto the ground. Etain was mightily impressed by the flat-ears skill. A shot like that was one of the toughest to make, even at a shorter distance. The flat-ear gave her a cheeky wink and kicked his corpse to one side, pulling the arrow from his eye, wrinkling her nose at the trail of gore that covered the arrowhead.  
“Squishy one but you heard me, right? ”just say what?”” she said, shaking her head with a grin. “Rich tits always try for more than they deserve.”  
She spun the arrow in her hand. “Blah blah blah obey me! Arrow in my face!”  
Etain watched her with curiosity, until she turned to face her, eyes still admiring the arrow in her palm. “so, followed the notes well enough, glad to see you’re…”  
When she lifted her eyes, her sharp little nose wrinkled again with disdain. “aaaaand you’re an elf. Well, hope you’re not too “elfy””  
“Too…elfy?” she tilted her head to one side, far from familiar with the terminology or what criteria she met to qualify for it.  
The girl shrugged. “Oh well. I mean its all good, ‘innit? I mean the important thing is: you glow? You’re the Herald thingy.”  
“Some believe that. But im more interested in who you are, and what all this is about.” She said shortly, intrigued by the strange girls flourished words but too occupied with the reason for her arrival to play along with her word games.  
“no idea, I don’t know this idiot from manners. My people just said the inquisition should look at him.”  
“your people?” something told her that she was not speaking of elves. Even city elves had more decorum than this girl. “who are your people?”  
“people- people, you know?” she said unhelpfully, and suddenly both their ears were pricking at a sound in the distance. “Name’s Sera” she pointed at the crates beside them. “this is cover. Get around it.”  
“mercenaries?”  
she nodded. “reinforcements. Don’t worry, someone tipped me their equipment shed”  
she giggled mischievously, pulling an arrow from her quiver. “they’ve got no breeches!”  
Etain stared at her incredulously for a moment before she turned to see the contingent of armed men rushing around the corner…..armoured to the waist with only their undergarments shielding their nakedness. It was truly a sight to behold, but she had not intention of ducking for cover now. The look on the seekers face was remarkably dumbstruck. The fight could hardly be considered fair given the circumstances, and within moments the floor was littered with half naked, bloodied corpses. Sera grinned smugly at the sight of them, delighting in her handiwork. “Friends really came through on that tip. No breeches!”  
She gave a hearty laugh and nudged the corpse beside her with the tip of her boot before turning to them again. “so Herald, you’re a strange one” she looked her up and down appraisingly and smiled. “I’d like to join”  
Sheathing her blade, she mirrored her appraisal. The girl was plump for an elf, her strawy blonde hair cropped short and her armour strangely colourful for the subtle type that she appeared to be. There was a wholesome honesty in her brash mannerism, and although they were wholly different from one another, Etain rather liked her. She reminded her of some of the more hot-blooded youngsters of her clan, those who had not yet tasted the responsibility of adulthood. “why don’t we get to know each other first? I’d like to know what your part in all of this is”  
Sera merely blinked at her confusedly. “well you got my note, right? That’s why?”  
“it wasn’t exactly forthcoming with information.” she said pointedly.  
“well its like this, see? I sent you a note to look for hidden stuff by my friends. The friends of Red Jenny. That’s me.”  
“You’re Red Jenny?”  
she shook her head with amusement. “well, im one. So’s a fence in Montfort, some woman in Kirkwall. There were three in Starkhaven, brothers or something. Its just a name, yeah? It lets little people, “friends”, be part of something while they stick it to nobles hate. So here, in your face, I’m Sera, “the friends of Red Jenny are sort of out there. I used them to help you”  
she wiggled her bow in the air. “plus, you know, arrows”  
“I think the inquisition has a fair number of spies. You’re looking to add to their ranks?”  
“Here’s how it is!” she exclaimed, waving her hands in a theatrical manner. “you important people are up here, shoving your cods around, “blah blah blah, ill crush you ill crush you!””  
after a few moments of continued pageantry, followed briefly by an interlude of mock-kissing noises, she cleared her throat and continued. “then you’ve got your cloaks and spy-kings. Like this tit” she said, pointing at the overturned body of the pompous mage she’d killed earlier. “or was he one of the little-knives? All serious with his…little knife…..anyways, all those secrets and what gave him up? Some houseboy who doesn’t know shite, but knows a bad man when he sees one. So no, im not knifey-shivdark, all hidden. But if you don’t listen down here too, you risk your breeches. Like those guards, I stole their…look, do you need people or not? I want to get everything back to normal, like you?”  
this odd little flat-ear had a simple charm about her that Etain found appealing. She looked back at her companions, who seemed mildly amused by the strange encounter they had just faced, save the Seeker who merely uttered a low, disgusted grunt along with a shrug. Turning back to the girl, she gave an approving nod. “I’m sure the Inquisition could use your skills, not to mention your friends.”  
Her warm, mischievous eyes lit up and she reached out, slapping her roughly on the arm. “yes! Get in before you’re too big to like. That’ll keep your breeches where they should be. Plus extra breeches…you got merchants who buy that pish, yeah? got to be worth something”  
Sauntering past her, she gave her arm a nudge with her shoulder. “So Haven, yeah? See you there, this’ll be grand”  
Etain watched her plucking arrows from the bodies as she went, dropping them back into her quiver as she whistled some bawdy tavern tune that echoed through the narrow alleys.  
Although there was likely no common ground between them, not even the ears that bore the same curve and sharpness, given the disdain in her voice at the word “elfy”, she still had a strange liking for their new companion. 

In a city of masks and deception, at least there was one brutally honest face among them.


	24. A Meeting With Madame De Fer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Etain meets the illustrious Madame Vivienne and her noble friends and gains yet another ally for the Inquisition, but an unexpected sight awaits her upon returning to Haven.

Duke Bastien's chateaux was one of many ornate buildings in the richest quarter of Orlais.   
Like the rest of the city it was richly adorned with gold and exotic imported plants, as sizeable as any palace she   
had ever glimpsed from a distance in the past,for all its wealth and finery.   
Noblemen gathered in clusters around the courtyard, so heavily engrossed  
in their idle gossip that they very nearly missed the sight of the well armed, blood-spattered guests that were currently  
speaking with the gate guard.Very nearly, for their eyes were ever sharp to any change from normaility, and suddenly their  
gossip had become focused a more singular topic.   
Etain felt slightly flustered at the idea of coming here. She rarely stepped foot in the halls of fine houses, and never   
under her own guise. with the help of the keepers inks, she had always taken great pains to conceal her Vallaslin, and   
donned a viel to cover her uncommon, silver hair. when she came to places like this, she was Leah or Aileen or Farrah,   
always a common name that never made her stand out. she was a servant or blacksmiths errand girl, a person who others   
took notice of for no more than a moment, for her eyes were always low to the ground and her guise was unassuming. she   
rarely spoke, save for rehearsed lines that got her where she needed to be.   
On this occasion she felt as though she were being thrown into open waters,herself but not herself in truth, but Dalish  
nonetheless.as they passed through the gilded gates, her ears moved to every sound and whisper. 

"is that the Herald? did they not say she was elven?"

"surely not, the maker has no such crudeness in his humour. perhaps she is someones pet."

"Mon dieu! what unsightly hair. such a dirty creature!"

"hush, are you looking to be cursed?"

 

their polite smiles and twisted masks could not hold back the sinister whispers they uttered from her ears, and she   
wondered if they were so ignorant as to the finely tuned hearing of the "knife-ears" that served them their drinks and  
polished their boots.  
"I've never conversed with these sorts before" she whispered through teeth that gritted together to form a tight, far  
from genuine smile at passing, curious individuals."What am i expected to do exactly?"  
"Be polite and gracious. these people will scrutinise your every movement given the chance" she answered warily, her words  
speaking grimly of past experience.   
"i think what the Seeker means is; try not to kill anyone for looking at you funny" Varric offered, nudging her elbow   
with a sympathetic grin.   
The guards at the doors offered their elegant bows and pulled open the doors, gesturing inside. She looked back to her   
companions and took in their reassuring nods. Part of her was bothered by the fact that not even Cassandra desired to   
come with her, but she supposed it was for the best. representing the inquisition as a force of diversity was likely  
a poor idea at such a time, especially to these shems, who were hardly the paramount example of open-mindedness.   
the entry hall was richly adorned with silken drapery of yellow and blue. The guests were dotted about the large hall,   
drinking from elegant little glasses and chatting amongst themselves. for a moment she thought she might be able to seek  
out Madame De Fer without drawing attention, until the smartly dressed man in front of her unfurled his parchment and   
bellowed out "Lady Lavellan on behalf of the Inquisition!"  
the guests of the hall fell silent and turned all at once, and she grimaced at the little gasps of awe that echoed   
momentarily through the high-roofed room. after they had drank in the topic of their future conversations, they seemed  
to accept her presence and return to their mingling. she gave a sigh of relief, before noting the curious pair that stood  
by the fountain between the two heavy staircases, heads tilting back and forth as they observed her. the feathers in their  
elegant hats bobbed at the movement, making them appear like jewel-hungry magpies. the woman's high collar fanned out   
about her face, laced up almost to her nose. keeping all but a sliver of skin hidden behind expensive fabric.   
"what a pleasure to meet you, my lady!" the man at her side said excitedly, clapping his hands together. "seeing the same  
faces at every event becomes so tiresome"  
"I...yes" was all she could manage, for she was momentarily unsure of how to converse with the highborn.   
he gave her an odd look, but still remained intent on speaking."So you must be a guest of Madame De Fer. or are you  
here for Duke Bastien?"  
"are you here on business?" the young woman at his side chimed in, her attempt at calmness disipating into a sudden burst  
of excitement. "oh we have heard such tales of you! I cannot imagine half of them are true!"  
Etain could only stand, frozen in horror as other noble ladies flocked to the womans side, emboldened by her excitement, as  
they all proceeded to flit about her like birds over a burst bag of grain. "are the tales true? are they?" they chimed   
amongst their other silly, high-pitched noises.   
"i think...i should think they are somewhat exaggerated" she managed, completely bewildered as to what godsforsaken stories  
they had heard to cause such an outburst. it was a fine contrast to the way their compatriots outside had spoken. though   
she supposed their was some weight in the title that held more reason for intrigue that their sort lapped up like sweet  
milk.   
"Is it true that you ride a great stag into battle?" one of them exclaimed. "just like the old stories?"  
She nodded meekly. "that is true, yes"  
"and that you can close those terrible portals with your hand?"  
again, she nodded.   
"madame, what do you think of this awful war? can the mages and templars truly be at peace?"  
Now that is a more dangerous question, she thought carefully.she had plenty of opinions on the matter, but probably best  
kept to herself. "perhaps there is a resolution, we cannot yet know"  
"Oh, the inquisition ought to attend more parties. this is all terribly exciting!" one of the women squaled with delight.

"the inquisition? what a load of pig shit!"

The room fell silent isntantly. The source of the slander was a young noble, striding down the stairs in his sharp-nosed  
golden mask. he eyed her with absolute disdain, his beady eyes peering out from the slits in his feathered mask.   
"washed up sisters and crazed Seekers? No one can take them seriously."

he brushed passed her dismissively and turned to face the crowd, and suddenly she was heavily reminded of chancellor   
Roderick. "Everyone knows its just an excuse for a bunch of political outcasts to grab power"

Etain knew this was a moment that would need to be reigned in, lest the little songbirds have a more foul tune to sing to  
their cohorts elsewhere. "The Inquisition is working to restore peace and order to Thedas" she said steadfastly, much   
aware of the blades hitched in their sheathes at his waist. 

"here comes the outsider to restore peace with an army!" he spat mockingly. 

now there was a statement frought with hypocracy....

he leaned closer to her, too close for her comfort, and her nostrils flared in warning."we know what your inquisition   
truly is" he hissed, his hand moving to his waist where his guilded blade hilt lay waiting. "if you were a woman of honour  
you would step outside and answer for these charges."

Before she could answer "with pleasure", a flash of white light appeared as if from nowhere, and suddenly he was engulfed   
in a shimmering aura of translucent blue, freezing him in place with his hand wrapped tightly around his ornate little   
blade. once the light at the top of the staircase disipated, its source was revealed. A tall, remarkably elegant lady   
adorned in a silver mask topped with a feintly artistic interpretation of a dragons twisted horns strode smoothly down the  
carpeted steps, illuminated by the feint glow of her imprisoning spell. "my dear marquis" she tutted with some amusement.  
"how unkind of youto use such language in my house...and to my guest. you know such rudeness is...intolerable."  
if the noble fool had not been frozen, Etain felt sure he would have been trembling. she noticed the quiver in his lip as  
the woman walked around him, observing him with unsympathetic eyes.   
"madam Vivienne, i humbly beg your forgiveness" he said weakly.   
She came to a stop in front of him, her face mere inches from his. "as you should"  
Madame De Fer shook her head and gave a long, drawn out sigh. "whatever am i going to do with you, my dear?"  
Etain was mightily surprised when she turned to her with a smile and gestured towards him. "my lady, you are the wounded  
party in this unfortunate affair. what would you have me do with this foolish, foolish man?"  
Part of her wanted to remind her that she was not privy to the rules of decorum within Orlais. An insult to ones honour  
within her clan had the right to be contested with a trial by combat, though not through some silly duel to the death  
as the Orlesians had it. as elegantly as they might have dressed it up, it was a barbarism to waste a life over some   
petty words, unless of course it was an open threat, which judging by this weak mans mannerisms, it was no more dangerous  
than a dog nipping at its masters heel when it looked for a feeding. still, she did not miss the obvious oppertunity to   
represent the Inquisition in a decent light. 

"Mercy" she said smoothly, giving the man a warning glance. "So long as it is in accordance with your laws"

Madame De Fer gave her a look of suprised approval, and as soon as her hand dropped, the shimmering aura was lifted and   
the marquis went to his knees in a fit of coughing and spluttering. "The Herald has given you your life, dear boy. you  
ought to remember that, and pay your respect"  
he struggled to his feet, edging backwards with a quick bow. "yes, yes of course Madam De Fer!" he wheezed. "my thanks,   
lady huh-Herald"  
with that he scrambled off, whimpering like a kicked hound with his tail between his legs. The Imperial Enchanter smiled  
at his departure and made a gesture to the bards to resume playing. "it delights me that you could attend this little  
gathering." she beamed, charm and grace lacing every word. "i have so wanted to meet you"  
Etain could not help but glance down at her own garb, well loved but coarse and dirty, highly contrasted by the womans  
richly embroidered garments of expensive silver and white material. unlike the other women, or any other mage shed glimpsed  
in Val Royeaux, she wore fitted trousers instead of a dress, with boots of white leather that extended past the knee,   
bearing heels so high one could hardly call it practical. how anyone could be so engrossed in fashion was a thought she  
could not grasp, but Orlesians certainly loved to make a show. she could not help but imagined them during their historical  
campaigns, conquering the lands in their impractical outfits and splendourous masks. The armies of Ferelden had likely ran  
from all the blinding colours alone when they were overrun by chevaliers. maybe the horses had worn masks too.   
The imperial enchanter gestured to the quiet windowsill to the south of the hall, and when they were out of earshot of  
gossip hungry attendees, it was time for a proper introduction. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Vivienne, first   
enchanter of Montsimmard and Enchantress to the Imperial Court"  
"A pleasure, Lady Vivienne" she said courteously, supposing she ought to engage in some idle chatter as often nobles did.  
"you estate is...very grand indeed"  
"oh well aren't you a charming little thing?" she cooed in her milky, refined tone. "i wanted to meet you face to face. its  
important to consider ones connections carefully. With Divine Justinia's death, the chantry is in shambles.only the   
inquisition mighty restore sanity and order to the frightened people. As leader of the last loyal mages in Thedas, i feel  
it only right to lend my assistance to your cause."  
She felt an odd sense of amusement at the thought of Madame De Fer trudging through the snows of Haven and complaining of  
the cold and the lack of richer distractions, but it seemed as though it were an idea she had considered carefully.  
her use of the words "loyal mages" was odd given the tenuous circumstances, though she was not unaware of the small and   
humble handful of magisters who hadnt bolted as soon as the Templars leash had slackened.Doubtless there were not enough  
by half to enact the Inquisitions plan to close the breach, but noble allies were an asset that were heavily impressed  
upon her as invaluable by the war council.   
"And what do you ask in return for your aid?" she queried, remembering her conversation with the last enchanter she   
recently crossed paths with earlier that day.   
The Imperial Enchanter gave her a knowing look. "why, to decide my own fate of course.I wont wait quietly for destruction  
as others might"

And because catching a cause when it is on the rise is easier than seeking its favour when its long since ascended past  
your reach, Etain thought with a smirk. "The inquisition would be most happy to have you, Lady Vivienne."

The Imperial Enchanter offered a bow of gratitute, low enough to show respect but not so low as to seem a panderer.   
"ah, but great things are beginning, my dear.I can promise you that. " 

 

With the matter at last settled, her business within the city had finally concluded, and when they finally stepped out  
from the city boundaries, Etain at last breathed a sigh of relief, not realising how truly stifled she had felt within   
its confines until the air of the outside world had filled her lungs.   
Although she still didnt relish the idea of returning to Haven, she galloped like the wind aback her noble Asfaloth as   
though she were entirely lacking in worldly cares, cherishing the singular moment of freedom even as her companions raced  
to keep up with her relentless pace. Cassandra seemed to take it as a good sign of dedication, and she certainly didnt   
rush to correct her understanding, for it saved her the sound of the seeker's distasteful grunts. 

it was only when they'd crossed the western bridge that lead to the village that she halted her jovial race, for the sight  
that greeted her arrival was not what she had expected.

Standing before the gates of Haven were the assembled units of the Inquisitions forces, rallied behind their tireless  
commander. 

But a mere few feet away, the ten outriders of Clan Lavellan stood antler to antler in their own defensive line, both  
sides remarkably still.

Before she knew it she was galloping once more, this time with intent, as though the sight before her might fade away  
if she were not fast enough to reach it. 

Gods blood,let them be here for peace, she thought, as the head rider turned at the sound of her thundering charge.


	25. A Father's Fear

The Keeper had been remiss about the idea of his departure, and fought him tirelessly on the subject.  
"You are no fool, Karadhras!" she had exclaimed. "you know this will not be seen as a diplomatic action.  
better we send word by the Eagles than arrive on their doorstep with a horde of riders in tow."  
"I would see her safe with my own eyes, Keeper" he insisted stubbornly. "And i wish to see what manner of men she has found  
herself amongst"  
"You have the right to worry, you are her father. but she is capable of handling herself,and you must trust her word."  
Karadhras knew there was truth in those words, but his nightmares would never end unless he knew for certain. "I will take  
nine willing riders and no more. We will take a peace offering of your choosing as a gesture of good will. IF she is indeed  
safe."  
Keeper Deshanna was old, but far from frail. Her knowing eyes peered at him, searching for his true intent. Creators knew he  
respected her above all others, but he lived and breathed for his people and when one failed to return, it was his duty  
to bring them home.

He could never have imagined his own child would be counted amongst the missing. 

He couldn't imagine it because he could not bear to think of it. 

Although Deshanna pleaded with him, she knew even in her efforts it would not stop him. He would not ask it of his riders,  
but he knew they would come. such was the loyalty of his kinsmen, and it honoured him greatly. Juna, his niece, had been  
first to volunteer, alongside her bondmate Kenai, for the pair would rarely even hunt without each other. The others ranged  
from elders to the freshly-blooded. They rode through the snow and the flat-lands, careful to avoid the far-reaching forces  
of rebels and sellswords that bloodied the land. There were enough hunters left to defend the clan to ease his worries about  
their safety. A journey that might have taken others weeks was completed in a mere few days, and when the path to Haven  
rattled beneath the feet of his Hart, his heart was starting to beat rapidly with worry. tucked carefully within his pocket  
was Etainiel's letter, crumpled from the sheer amount of times he had scanned it. Now it was time to see if there was truth  
in it. 

As he had expected, there was something of an uproar at their impromptu arrival. The young guardsmen he had encountered on  
the trail had little idea of how to proceed, or whether he was even permitted to allow them through. When he had run off to  
confer with his superiors, he and his riders had sat in wait, watched carefully and worriedly by the cluster of scouts that  
watched the paths. It was not often that they would have been seen out in the open, for clan Lavellan dwelled predominantly  
in the north, and any business they had with shems was conducted with the modest villages that littered the land. Even then  
they did not often entreat with them from atop their stags, for villagers frightened easily at such things. He held little  
issue with the common people as they were often quiet and humble. This time, however, he feared the Inquisitions military  
force would prove less amiable. 

He had feared for naught. 

Upon their approach the soldiers that trained tirelessly in the yard had rallied to the call of their leader, and it had  
not escaped his keen eyes the way they scrambled up the slope and bumped against one another as they edged into a decent  
formation. When he had pulled to a halt before them, his small band were enough to have them fretting. It was not the  
rallied formation that set his warrior instincts alight. it was the one that lead them that sparked his ire. 

The subtle scent of Lyrium-infused blood laced his nostrils as he took a deep breath. It was a scent he knew well, a scent  
that had an almost overwhelming sense of fury coursing through his veins, for all the memories that burned in the dark  
corners of his mind.

His hands tightened around the long mane of Terokhan, his loyal Stag. The creature had been as temperamental as a  
wild druffalo in his youth, but he had long since had his fire quelled as age set in. Nonetheless, the old boy grunted in  
response to his silent anger. 

The man who stood before him was a Templar through and through, refined and disciplined in his demeanour, so neatly polished and finely groomed;a man who had as much to prove to his men as they had to him. He stood before his men and the large wooden gates of the village like a hungry pup protecting his food, defensive of what was his. "Greetings Ser. Have you some business in Haven?" A ferelden lad, judging by his distinct border-country lilt. He would have known that even without hearing the accent, for the redness of his cheeks and nose suggested he was unused to the mountain air but familiar with the warm lowland rains.

Karadhras gripped the banner of clan Lavellan tightly in his fist and made his proclamations. He was far from a dignitary, but it was of little consequence. He spoke as a leader of warriors, to a leader of soldiers, and there was little point in wasting time with flowered words and foolish pleasantries. He had come bearing an offer of peace, he could do that much at least for the keeper, but he would not extend the hand of allegiance without leverage. The young mans eyes were wary, guarded, those of a man unsure as to whether he was looking at an ally or an enemy. He leaned in to his saddle, eyes like stone from where they peered out from the shadow cast by his wolf helm, and saw his hard gaze turn to one of sudden realisation even before he spoke again. "Where is my daughter?"

"I had not realised that you were-i mean..." he cleared his throat. there was guilt in those eyes, he was sure of it. sourced from what, he did not know, but he was standing on very thin ice, commander or no. "Forgive me,ser. You have travelled far, but i am afraid the Herald of Andraste is not currently present here in Haven. she is attending to business in Val Royeux"

"Val Royeaux?" His voice was a growl, low and threatening. "and why, pray tell, would she be there?"

"I believe i can answer that" A red-haired woman sidled her way through the gathered soldiers, a pleasant smile upon her face. "Andaran atis'an, I am sister Lelliana, Spymaster of the Inquisition. This is Commander Cullen, leader of our military. We are most honoured by your arrival, ser...?

"Not sir" he said shortly, wrinkling his nose at the shemlen formality. "I am Warleader Karadhras of clan Lavellan, and i speak on behalf of she who is most wise,Deshanna Istimaethoriel, Keeper of our clan. She is pleased to hear of our kinsmen's fair treatment, and I am here to confirm it." 

The nightingales eyes were passive and observant, but the Commander looked less impressed. "You were to tell me news of my Daughter, i believe?" he said, glancing across at his kinsmen, who were glowering at the soldiers with discontent heavy in their gazes. The nightingale turned to one of the soldiers. "Fetch the ambassador, would you?" she whispered pleasantly, sending him on his way. "Indeed, Warleader. the situation is...complicated, as I'm sure you must realise. Our ambassador, lady Montilyet, will do an explanation more justice than i"

Karadhras snorted indignantly, wary of the impatience of the youngsters amongst his retinue. He cast a sharp gaze upon Commander Cullen. "Tell your men to take their leave, and I shall do the same."

The Commander stood,silent and unmoving. The pup was fearful, tactful, careful and stubborn. The tension in the air was almost stifling, and although they barely moved, his companions felt it, and lent weight to it as well. Thin ice, indeed...

A sound ripped through the air, shattering the tension around them with the strength of its familiarity. The hooves of the same creature that once teetered determinedly towards a little girl with skinned knees and mess of silver curls, the same creature that bucked that girl from his back when she wanted to gallop and he to canter, who taught her the ebb and flow of a true rider. 

A creature who never galloped with so much fervour without that girl upon his back. He turned Terrokhar sharply, and at last his heart was lifted of the great worry that had held it captive. without a second thought he broke from his formation and rode forth to meet the rider, and between the bridge and the gates they both came to a halt. 

"Andaran Atish'an, ada" Etain cried out, her voice wavering ever so slightly, filled with concern and relief, pulling Asfaloth in beside Terrokhar, the two harts butting one another affectionately, the bond of father and son so strong within them. "why? why have you come?"

"Etainiel" he breathed, silent thanking the creators for this cherished moment. "You are safe, thank the gods. I had to come, i could not leave you here, not without knowing."

She huffed, shaking her head. "Ada, my letter-"

"Letters are an easy thing to forge" he said shortly. "or dictate" 

"I am safe enough, as you see."

"You lied" he whispered harshly, glancing back at the gathered soldiers and the rest of his riders. "You said you were no prisoner. We both know that is not true."

She did not look surprised, for she knew him too well. instead, she nodded, ruefully. "Aye, I was, but I am no longer. Mythal's mercy, call back the riders before blood is shed."

"If you think this Inquisitions army is so inclined to violence" he sighed impatiently, whistling for his riders to withdraw. "They came to see your safety, as have I."

"I know" she said softly, lowering her head, shamed by her brashness. "Ir abelas,Haren. Whatever the reason.."

Etain looked to the gates of Haven, her eyes distant. "...I am glad you are here"


	26. Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Etain truly feels the full weight of her sudden responsibility for the first time. 
> 
>  
> 
> *note: sorry for the mah-huh-sive delay on this chapter post!Workload has been heavy lately and my shifts have been terrible, plus I wanted to make this chapter especially vivid and i couldn't post until i was absolutely happy with it and it came out, well, apparently 3 times as long as my usual chapters so yeah, took a while to finish. Hope you enjoy though! Take in the feels, people!*

Cullen watched the elves bring their stags to the lakeside, away from his men and the worried villagers that huddled in frightful bunches near the training yard. The impromptu arrival of a fleet of riders was not a welcome sight to most, though some amongst them seemed immensely curious about the strangers. Horsemaster Dennet looked positively elated at their coming, leaning over the post where the horse he had been grooming was hitched, straining to get a better view as they unsaddled their harts and let them wander while they placed the saddles in the snow and draped the thick sheepskin under-blankets across them.  
“Blimey, look at them all!’ the Horsemaster exclaimed. “s’like one of them old stories, isn’t it? Elven riders galloping across the land on wild beasts, never thought I’d see the like!”  
and it truly was like the legends. He, like every other child born to a village of no consequence, had been raised on frightful tales of wild creatures with painted faces and eyes that shone in the darkness like demons, who rode through the streets when the cold mists rose to steal away children from their homes to feed their hungry, dark gods.  
But these people weren’t stealing children or slaughtering soldiers. They were casting their weapons aside to embrace their long-absent kinswoman. As soon as she slid down from her saddle they were surrounding her, touching her arms, her forehead, her eyelids and her hair with their long, willowy fingers as though ensuring that she was there in her entirety. It was a strange display, made stranger by their rushed, foreign dialogue. The Herald was so withdrawn from others he could never have imagined her to be so inclined to such an affectionate display, and yet she stood with a smile so wide and so warm amongst her kinsmen. Although the tell-tale signs of worry were evident, they dwindled in comparison to the relief that she exuded.  
“Incredible, isn’t it?” Lady Montiylet breathed, her eyes wide with wonder. “they must have come so far to see her. And at such a dangerous time! I never realized they were such sentimental people”  
They kept a respectful distance from the elves while they greeted one another. The Herald had thankfully arrived in time to dissipate the stifling tension that had risen upon their coming. She rode to the gates at her fathers side and proclaimed that they would speak further of the prospects of allegiance once their mounts had been turned free, for their ride had been a long and arduous one, and hers as well. He noticed rather quickly how self-assured she appeared atop her beast with ten of her own kinsmen at her back, most especially her father. Side by side the resemblance was all the more blatant, though her features appeared softer in contrast to his own, hard and etched by age, and the marks on his face were thick and black against his dark, copper skin, where hers were a soft blue expanse of twisted vines, or perhaps branches, that looped from her forehead to her cheeks. Her skin was a softer colour too, he realized, though he wondered why he was noticing such things.  
Lady Montilyet had kindly offered the hospitality of Haven and the use of the Chantry hall for the purpose of their discussion, but Karadhras Lavellan had refused it. “My father has taken an oath to not set foot in any place considered holy to Andrastians” The Herald had stated plainly on his behalf. “If it would be agreeable to you, he and my clansmen would speak outside of the gates.”  
For a moment he wondered if it was simply a statement of his stubbornness, or perhaps a snub against the inquisition itself, but he could see from the expression on both father and daughters face that there was some great significance that was best not questioned.  
And so they stood and waited as if they were no more than petitioners at a Kings court, as if it were not the inquisitions land but theirs.  
But it isn’t our land, its some old lords land that we are borrowing because we have no resources of our own, he conceded grimly. And because we need all the help we can get before the real fighting begins…  
The elves spoke of allegiance, but never revealed what that entailed. Lords could offer wealth and soldiers, villages could offer resources and merchants could offer supplies. What could these people bring to them that could give them a firmer place in the world?  
Once their warm greetings had concluded he could see that their communication had shifted to a more serious note. The other elves had taken to using their saddles as seats on the snow, but their leader remained standing, leaning on the hilt his greataxe, its head buried in the snow. His daughter paced before him, her hands clasped beneath her chin, her voice low and hushed.  
Cassandra leaned back against the wall, arms crossed as she scrutinized the Herald and her kinsmen. “I wonder if she had not planned this” she said with uncertainty. “The arrival of these riders seems well timed indeed.”  
Varric looked entirely unconvinced. “you saw her face when we got here, seeker” he said with a light chuckle. “I don’t think that was the face of someone thinking “ah, but my nefarious scheme has worked!”. I think it was something more like “oh shit, daddies here, and he looks pissed!” “  
“I’ve met the Dalish before” Lelliana said suddenly, looking as un-phased as ever in the face of unusual circumstances. “Their customs are not like ours. I did not think a letter would suffice to convince them of the Heralds well being. Not under these circumstances, with the death of the most holy and a war on the horizon”  
It was a valid point, and yet he could not help but wonder at the irony. After all, he had wished to send his own men as a show of force to them. Apparently Karadhras Lavellan had the same idea. Likely a point best not mentioned to his own daughter though. His neck was still throbbing from the last time that was mentioned. He recalled with due grimness the way she had left him entirely defenseless lying in the snow. She could have killed him then and there, but she hadn’t, she had spoken with him, reasoned with him in her own strange and yet threatening manner. Her father did not have the look of a man who would have struggled with the idea of killing a human in the same circumstances.  
The only one who seemed to keep their opinions tight-lipped was, ironically, Haven’s resident, barely-tolerated apostate, Solas. He didn’t care much for the elf, for he was essentially silent save for when the breach was mentioned, and far too clever for his own good. He had a youthful look that didn’t match his manner of speaking, and a constant sense of assured superiority that made speaking with him an undesirable prospect unless it was entirely necessary. The wistful smile that usually played across his lips had turned to an unhappy frown rather suddenly when the Dalish had arrived. Cullen could not imagine why, for he was an elf himself and not one born to the alienages, surely he was more akin to their traditions than those of the city-born? His face was not marked as theirs was, and his skin was as pale as any humans, and yet he seemed much more at home in a natural environment. The Herald seemed glad of his presence, a common thing for one who was alone in a world that was not their own, he supposed, and surely there was some likemindedness between them.  
“The Dalish are not often so easily reasoned with, that much is true” was all the bald elf muttered before he slipped away into the village and was gone before anyone could wonder why.  
Cullen turned his attention back to the elves, where the Herald continued to pace and was now apparently joined by her father, like a quiet battle of words he could not grasp and tones to quiet to discern. It was only when she extended her hand that the older man in his frightening wolf helm stopped dead in his tracks, for as if it felt the compulsion of its host her palm began to crackle with that strange, unknown energy force that reached out for contact with the great tear in the sky. Suddenly all of her kinsmen wore the same look of utter shock. some of the older riders rose to their feet and came close enough to inspect, reaching out to touch her hand without a second thought for what it might do, and pulling back when their fingers remained in tact. If she was trying to prove something, she had certainly hit the mark with a visual aid. She looked up to her father, who towered above her with his immense height, and suddenly his head was bowed, shaking from side to side, whatever argument he had left, silenced.  
The Herald brought her hands together, one a fist and the other flat with fingers pointed upwards atop it, bowing with sincere respect to him, and he returned the gesture. She left him then and walked up the slope. Cullen looked to her expectantly, and she gave him a nod before glancing to Lelliana and Josephine.  
“If you would follow me, please” she said. “My people would speak with you now”  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
She took her place at her father’s side, the remainder of her kinsman setting their saddles around them in a neat semi- circle of sheepskin seats. Weeks of uncertainty living amongst humans had left a tension in her that only became truly evident with the relief of standing amongst the people she had known from birth. She was pleased beyond expression at those who had chosen to come, and knew in her heart that those who had not only stayed to protect the clan. Juna, in her heavy deerskin cloak, pushed her saddle up against hers so she was close enough to take hold of her braid, plucking at the leather cords until her hair fell loose against her back. "you've not combed it in weeks" her cousin muttered in elvish, displeased with the knots that snagged between her fingers. "Creators, how could you have let it get so wild?Gods forbid you should ever need it cut, Lethallan." 

She leaned her shoulder against Juna's and smiled at her constant fretting. Juna was her elder by two years, and lectures were frequent and numerous. Of course she was first to volunteer for the journey, she might have burst from the sheer urge to berate her for her absence if she had not. "I have no one who might assist me with the task, and no good comb to do it myself" she retorted, giving her a playful shove that was quickly returned. Juna shook her head, her own long braid of dark auburn and metal bells jingling at the movement. They whispered in their own tongue, for they were observed by the shemlen who knelt awkwardly in the snow before them on the thick blanket one of her clansmen had provided. Ambassador Montilyet was chattering away in her smooth and accommodating tone as if their arrival were not at all an inconvenience but a welcome sight. Cassandra wore a face like stone, and preferred to stand rather than sit. Some of the women observed her with great scrutiny, for she stood as an oddity in their eyes as a woman who fought alongside men in a culture that rarely tolerated women fighters. there were some amongst the soldiers, of course, but so few in number.

"Her hair is so short" Juna said gruffly, observing the inquisitions representatives with her nose wrinkled. She never understood humans, never wanted to. none of them truly did. Etain included herself in that mindset for the most part, even despite her situation. Juna’s eyes fell upon one of them in particular. " who is that one with the furs and the face like a slapped arse?" she asked, her words descending momentarily into a rarely used slang that was both brutally honest and disarmingly accurate.  
Etain had to put her knuckles to her mouth and bit down hard to stop herself from laughing, keeping her face as resolute as possible. "God's blood, Juna" she hissed, clearing her throat when she had locked her urge to laugh away beneath a mask of impassiveness. "that one is Commander Cullen, he leads the soldiers here."  
The Commander shot a glance at them, curious and suspicious at the sound of his name. She'd never seen him with an earnest smile, for he always wore the same look of tired grimness that was not befitting for a man of his age.  
Juna snorted and shook her head, her eyes and hands focused on the wavy locks of silver strands as she worked the knots out relentlessly. "He has a woman's name" she muttered disdainfully, thinking immediately of the elven variation "Kuhl-laen". "and he is a templar." "Aye, he is" she agreed grimly."he says he is no longer, but he thinks like one. and you are right, it sounds like a womans name."  
"Your father does not like him"  
"i did not think he would"  
Although her father could understand their every word, her father sat as still as a statue, pretending to listen to the delightfully upbeat chatter of Lady Montilyet. He was not a man who enjoyed such long platitudes. He never spoke with shems, not unless there was real need of it. He had come from a clan that never traded with humans before he had joined clan Lavellan and fought for his place as their warleader. Keeper Deshanna was always glad of his presence, for he was a voice of sound logic and great wisdom amongst the elders, and yet he rarely adhered to their diplomatic ways on a personal level. He had lost his trust for shems a long time ago. That he sat before them with such grace and patience was a wonder, and her heart swelled with pride as she sat at his side. she knew in her heart how difficult this was for him, how much he wanted her to return with them and be away from this place. Their brief exchange was enough to show that. She bore a great respect for him, for his wisdom and for his strength, but he was stubborn as an ancient oak, rooted deeply into the earth, and that stubbornness ran true in their shared blood. He implored her to return at his side, back to their clan, away from the wars of shems to prepare for the coming storm. His lack of faith in the inquisition was all too evident. She was close, so close to taking the offer that it pained her beyond words to refuse, as much as it pained him to hear it. She had fought to prove herself a capable hunter, warrior and rider for so long, it was an inconceivable notion to prove that she wished to leave the life she had known and loved for so long, even with the intention of returning once her task was done burning in her eyes.  
Still he was unmoved, still he fought her on the idea, unwilling to leave his only child amongst those he wildly mistrusted.  
"They imprisoned you" he had hissed, his voice as low and thunderous as a distant storm rolling across the cold hills. "Who knows what they would have done if they believed your guilt in truth...gods, but i cannot bear to think.."  
"They did not. they will not" she said ardently, hurrying to silence the dark memories that crept out from the shadows of his mind. "I have something they cannot do without. something that will end this before it begins."  
He looked up at her, his pained, angered eyes peering out from the shadows of the wolf head. "the title they give you....there is a reason for it. I have heard it whispered, as we all have...show me. I will not believe it until i see it with my own eyes"  
She lowered her head, eyes closed, reluctantly pulling her doeskin glove from her hand. As though sensing its freedom, the mark crackled wildly in her palm as she raised it high, towards the thundering maelstrom that bellowed furiously in the distance. The thick, black swirls of his tattooed chest contorted swiftly over his muscles at the sight, his eyes wide as the glow of light illuminated his shocked features.  
Her clansmen rushed to her, faces aghast at the rippling energy that longed to connect to the fearsome tear that loomed above the mountaintop. The had no fear about them, touching her palm gingerly to test the power, but it did nothing to them, and it only made her wonder more about its purpose. Her father took her hand when the others stepped back, holding it so gently with trembling fingers.

He never trembled. Not when he woke from fevered dreams, not when he took an injury, not even when he fought against his inner fury. 

Yet he trembled now, and it struck a great and sudden fear into her heart. 

"Who has done this to you?" he growled low. "what is this magic?" 

She wished she could find some way to reassure him with knowledge, with understanding of what power hummed beneath her skin. "It has the power to close the breach" she said fervently, twisting her fingers comfortingly around his hand. " I do not know where it came from, but i know it can end this, that it can seal away the demons that ravage this land. it has sealed the rifts and stabalised the tear itself. with more power, it can close it forever."  
"Power" he repeated the word, piecing the meaning of her words together until he realised their true meaning. "This inquisition means to empower it."  
"Aye, they have the means to do so" she said carefully, squeezing his hand. "The cause is yet young, but it will grow. and when it does, when they have their supporters and the breach is closed, they will have no need of me...nor this mark." 

And at last his eyes had softened, and he breathed a deep, weary sigh. He cared for her safety, he did not wish to leave her, but he knew, as she and all their clansmen did, that duty stood above all things. duty to their people, to the preservation of their fragile place within the world, a preservation threatened by the same unyielding force that pushed its way through the breach with a longing to devour the entire world with its demonic bloodlust. "Then....it must be so. I fear there is no other choice." He said wearily, letting go of her hand and pressing his calloused fingers against her forehead. "Gods know I tried to keep you from the fate that branded you from birth, Etain. But the creators see fit to place you in a danger I cannot protect you from." She winced at the mention of fate. She knew the stories of her birth, she heard the tale in her mind every time she glimpsed the huge expanse of puckered flesh that marred the darkened muscles of her fathers forearm, whispered by elders when the nights were cold and the winds were howling. The prophecy that was spoken in the early hours of her life by the keeper herself had loomed over her like a dark storm cloud that she fought tirelessly to outrun.  
"For the clan, ada" she proclaimed proudly, bowing low with a warriors salute, her wavering tone betraying her determined words. "For our people. I will not see us fall to ruin. My heart aches to return with you, but you see now that I must stay here, no matter how much it might grieve me. You taught me that there was no greater glory than standing proudly for our people. I take your lessons to heart, the lessons that the gods have gifted to us. I will not run from fate if it means I must abandon the chance to defend our people"  
She saw the pride in his eyes that fought for supremacy over his fear. They lived the lives of warriors beneath the strict disciplines of their ancestors. Her father had encouraged her to take up the path and she had been proud to follow in his footsteps and learn under his harsh and unyielding tutelage. Without it she would not have stood fearless in imprisonment, with the swords of soldiers against her neck, with the Seekers fierce gaze upon her. With the Commanders even fiercer gaze and the scent of lyrium that coursed in his veins that very nearly made her fearful... 

Juna gave her hair a harsh tug, jolting her from her deep thoughts. "I'll braid it to one side, it wont knot so much. You can even have one of my bells if you like"  
Etain nodded and took hold of the loose lengths on the left side of her head and flipped them to the right, allowing her cousin to artfully tie them and attach her own bell to one of the leather cords. She looked up at her father, who's face showed he was growing impatient with the ambassadors sweet words.  
She realised she had not been paying a great deal to her words, although they were likely well-intended. When it became clear that Josephine was starting to sense that her practiced words for noble men did not have quite the same effect for her kind, she gently laid a hand on her fathers arm. "I can assure you, father, that the inquisition has been most kind and accommodating, as the ambassador says." 

He snorted rather indignantly. "Your head did not roll upon the cobblestones of Val Royeaux, I suppose that is evidence enough. But as you likely see, i am not a man for diplomacy, lady ambassador, that is the duty of she who is most wise, but she has a duty to our clan to guide us all. I am merely here to carry out her will and see my da'len's safety with my own eyes, as any good father would. Now i have seen to that, we might count ourselves an ally to your cause. " 

"We would be most honoured!" The ambassador exclaimed happily. "I am sure that few could boast of such an allegiance, and we would be proud to have it"  
"Indeed it is a great honour" The commander said with surprise, though less enthusiastic than Josephine. "The Inquisition's forces grow in number every day, but we would be glad of your aid to bolster those numbers."  
Etain snorted this time, shaking her head, and beside her she saw her fathers primal grin widen.  
"You are quick to assume I mean to offer you the aid of our riders, commander. " he said smoothly. "Unlike your forces that swell with loyal peasants and sellswords, the lives of our warriors are too precious to our clan."  
"Then what is it you offer?" He retorted, clearly trying to temper his impatience against her father's blatant snub.  
Her father leaned forward in his saddle-seat, and the grin on his face disappeared into a thin-set frown. "What can I give that is so precious to me as that which is already given? She who sits to my right, the blood of my blood, has sworn to stand amongst your rank and file, and I must respect her decision."  
"Ah, well.. but of course, ser. We of course are glad of the Herald's aid. She is a credit to your clan."  
"I am not one for flattery, boy. Nor is my daughter, i know well enough of her skill. She was raised to be spirited, to be fierce, to be proud, as any good woman of elvenkind" he retorted disdainfully, setting a cold eyes upon the commander. “as im sure you well know by now”  
Commander Cullen’s face was a picture of raw shock that might have had her clansmen in fits of laughter under different circumstances.  
The lion is but a cub when he stands before the hound of winter, she thought with pride. He might challenge me for who I am, but he’d not dare risk the prospect before my father.  
"We do not think ourselves so high as to ride across these lands without token, however. Your men go to war, and war comes with loss and great pain for those who march beneath the banners of any cause."  
He waved his hand and gestured to her kinsmen, who lifted back the doeskin saddlecloths and unbuckled heavy saddlebags to reveal their hidden bounty. "for all your allegiances, for all your soldiers and the supplies they need to grow strong, you will need these more. The Goddess Sylaise has gifted us with a fine bounty in our harvest this season, and the Keeper has decreed that we send as much of our healing herbs to your cause as could be spared.”  
The outriders dropped their heavy saddlebags down before them and withdrew to their seats once more. The war council looked upon their offering with wonder and bewilderment.  
"A fine gift indeed" said Lelliana approvingly. "Our forces will be grateful for this boon."  
“to treat your wounded, aye” he said graciously, nudging a saddlebag with his foot. “Your kind have a like for iron on the field. That we have in less supply, but we may be inclined to send more to your northern outposts when the Winter is done. Our quartermaster sends what ores can be spared for now.”

“My men will make good use of this” Cullen said wonderingly, offering a humble bow of his head. “You have our sincere thanks, warleader.”

Her father turned to her then, looking down at her with a hesitation he’d not dare allow them to see. “Da’len, you are content with this?”

She bowed her head. “Yes, Ada. I am truly honoured.”

He nodded, placing a hand upon her shoulder. “You choose to stay amongst them until the great tear in the sky has been closed?

“It is my choice. I stay”

He nodded again, turning back to the war council. “Then we name her as envoy of clan Lavellan, to stand amongst your kind as a representative, as the keeper wishes, and as she chooses. Juna, if you would.”

Juna looked to him, and then to Etain, and almost begrudgingly reached into her pack and pulled out a bottle she instantly recognized as ceremonial spice-wine from the keepers own cache. With it, she handed him a small stone cup. “I do not know how your people solidify their allegiances, but if you would indulge us” he said, pouring a modest amount of wine into the cup.  
He took a small sip for himself and passed it around her clansmen first, and once Juna drank a sip for herself she passed it along to Lelliana, and then Josephine, who both took it with grace much the same as them, though she saw that there was a momentary struggle to swallow it at first. The Ambassador passed it to Cullen, who raised his brow and sniffed at the contents before taking some for himself. She watched him carefully, for he held it in his cheek for a moment too long and she counted the seconds before his face grew immensely red when the relentlessly hot spices seeped through his gums.  
Her father watched too, and looked very nearly amused, but he would not for long if the man were fool enough to spit it out and pay him insult. The moment seemed to linger in the air until he finally swallowed and nodded his head, the muscles at his throat tightening as he muttered. “s’good”  
He held out the cup to her but she did not touch it, and instead her father reached for it and took another sup for himself before handing it to her. She drank it down heartily and let it touch her tongue only for a moment before the comforting warmth seeped down her throat. She had only supped this wine on special occasions, and the taste was a wonderful reminder of the memories she associated with them. 

“And so it is done” her father breathed, bowing his head. “you honour us in partaking of our traditions, Inquisition.”  
With the strange allegiance solidified in truth before many curious onlookers, the outriders prepared for their departure, bringing forth their stags to resaddle for the journey. Etain stood amongst them, taking in as much as she could of them in her mind, memorizing every feature she could; Maeshando with his great painted pawprints inked upon his chest to symbolize the great bear that he was at heart, Shallamera with her kind blue eyes and Valla with her wise and comforting words, Khota-luan and his shaved temples and long black braid; her fathers favourite potential man for her hand (who’s presence she presumed was not entirely coincidental), Juna and Kenai, she with her endless mothering and he with his loyal heart and silly humour. With them came Shar’een, the stag-keeper’s second, who gave Asfaloth a once-over and reminded her he would have to be turned loose in the summer to be with his mate.  
Vakan, Theynrias and Makkarra, three of their newly blooded hunters did their best to look stoic and proud amongst their elders, but their eyes grew wide when she touched their shoulders and told them to be good and strong for the clan, and fresh from childhood they still adjusted to casting off their fears like the elder warriors.  
Once saddled, the riders stood once more before the gates of Haven, all save for her father. For one, childlike moment, she wanted to rush into his broad arms and tell him how much she would miss him, how much she wanted him to command her to leave Haven and go home, away from Templars and Chantries and the wars of men.  
He held out his hand to her and touched her shoulder lightly. She could see that he wanted to be of comfort to her, to indulge her childish wish and simply be a father to her.. They both felt the eyes of the shemlen upon them, and though it seemed to pain him greatly, he pushed her back from him gently, denying the urge to show weakness, fear, or even sentimentality. 

 

You are a warrior of the Lavellans, a ranger of the north, she reminded herself, you do not cry when you are afraid.

The moment passed and she raised her head, her eyes blazing and fierce with determination.

"Fate may set you on a path, but the journey is yours to forge as you will" he said in a fervent whisper of elvish , his voice unwavering and his eyes almost obscured in the shadows of the wolf-helm. "So you must tread with caution in this world. You have walked in the shadows through their streets and learned their secrets in the past. Now you walk in the light, for all to see. So let them see you are fierce, you are strong, as I have always known you to be. Whatever title they lay upon your shoulders, whatever they speak of divine providence, you are not strong because a God has marked you. Not their pitiless maker, not even our dread wolf. You are strong because you have your mothers blood within you, wild and fierce as she was.”

Terokhan knelt in the snow beside him, waiting for him to take seat upon his back. Her father kneeled and unfixed the longbow that was hidden beneath the saddlecloth and held it out to her. She gasped, shocked that he had thought to bring it with him, and touched her heart as it swelled with gladness.  
“Your bow” he said proudly. “Made from the very rosewood your mother saved for you when you became a woman. I remember when she brought this to the woodforge, how she said you would do great things with it. I remember how your face lit up when it was placed in your hands.”  
She smiled, closing her eyes as she ran her fingers along the familiar etchings. Creators, but she wished to shed the tears that longed to be free. She thought of her mother with her warmth and her loving ways. No mother in the world could surely have rivaled her save for Mythal herself. She wanted to ask him what she might have said now, how she might have guided her, but beneath the wolfs shadow she saw the great pain in his eyes at the mere thought of her.  
“I will honour the old ways even here” she said passionately, pulling him back from his own mind as best she could. “I will not grow fat on human foods, I swear it.”  
He looked down at her with a sincere smile and let a great roar of laughter that sang with relief and she beamed at him triumphantly. Karadhras Lavellan had a great humour, it was known, but it could be rarely pulled from him in his later years. “Aye, see that you don’t.”  
Much too aware of the eyes of the war council and the curious villagers and soldiers, he begrudgingly threw his leg over his saddle and Terokhan rose when his weight settled, and he was towering over her once more as warleader of their clan. 

_____________________________________________________________________ 

Cullen watched the brief exchange between father and daughter, whatever impatience or disdain he might have felt over the entire incident of their arrival crumbling like a poorly constructed wall. He could not find it in himself to be angry, not with the herald, nor with her kinsmen. For the decidedly small amount of understanding he had for their illusive and strange culture, he felt a fierce sense of understanding for what he saw now.  
Herald Lavellan, who so often bore a sense of immense coldness and distance from most of the Inquisition, stood before her father a child far from home, a child forced to say goodbye to the family she loved, who struggled with the choice with no knowledge of where it would lead her.  
He remembered all too well what it felt like to say goodbye to a loving family and persue a noble cause for the greater good. He had been no more than a child when he had made his choice, but he supposed it made little difference when you left the only life you had ever known.  
He saw, for just a brief moment, the way her eyes flickered, the hint of second-guessing that gave her pause, made her think of consequences and all that she was sacrificing and whether she could truly make such a choice. The moment didn’t last, it couldn’t last, not in a stubborn mind, certainly not one as stubborn and determined as hers.  
Sentimental words whispered in a foreign tongue still held the weight of a parent’s farewell, and very briefly he felt his mothers own words echoing in his mind. He needed no knowledge of elvish to feel the great and powerful depth that laced his tone. 

Karadhras placed a bow in her hand and mounted his stag, standing before his riders like a true leader. He took the axe from his back and raised it high in the air. “Etainiel, my daughter, blood of clan Lavellan!” He bellowed, his voice so strong it thundered with immense clarity and power that he did not need to think twice about how he came to lead a warband. “You are our wrath! You are our fury! May the God’s in their slumber hear your roar of triumph!”

He saw the way the words struck her, the way her shoulders heaved, emboldening her with their strength. With great speed, she pulled her elven sword from her side and raised it high. 

“WE ARE LAVELLAN! UNBOWED! UNBENT! UNBROKEN!”

Her great and powerful cry began a chorus from her kinsmen that shook the very mountainside with its passion. 

“UNBOWED!UNBENT!UNBROKEN!”

And with that, the riders, swords still raised high and banners still flickering in the wind, turned and galloped away from Haven with their cries still loud and hearty upon their lips. 

“Makers breath” he breathed without thinking, stunned by what he had just observed.

 

When the Herald turned, there were no tears in her eyes, nor upon her cheeks. 

She did not look back to see her kinsmen go.

She merely sheathed her blade and walked through the gates of Haven, not a word for any of them, her head held high.

The bow her father had gifted her was clutched tightly in her hand.


	27. A simple Gesture

“It’s no use, ser! The beast is half-mad!”

Cullen struggled to keep a hold of the rope as the horse fought against his confines, rearing and kicking at any soldier who dared come too close. Three soldiers had managed to fasten heavy ropes to its bridle and retreat before suffering a blow, and he himself had managed to grab a length and pull it tight enough to hold him in one place as the others followed his lead. 

“Fetch the horsemaster, quickly!” he bellowed, desperate to keep the horse from causing himself any injury in his frantic state.

Only a matter of days ago the young stallion had been a picture of good temper. He could not imagine why he would turn so suddenly. Unlike the majority of steeds that were stabled in Haven, this one was not one of Dennet’s own stock. Cullen had bought him from an Orlesian horse-trader outside of Kirkwall just before he had departed with the last of his saved wages. He took a liking to the creature as soon as he’d laid eyes upon him, for he had all the signs of a loyal, good tempered warhorse. His coat and mane were a shimmering black and he was well exercised, as shown by his strong, muscular flanks. He was worth every sovereign, and although Cullen was not much of a horseman, he quite liked his steady canter and evident patience.   
The last thing he wanted to do was lose the poor creature to madness. When Dennet arrived, he seemed at a loss as much as any of them.   
“Andraste’s flaming sword” the old man cursed as he directed them to gain a better foothold when he reared again. “this is what you get for trusting Orlesian stock I tell you! The poor young thing is scared to death!”  
“Can you calm him?” he asked desperately, resisting another heavy tug as the horse bellowed out a terrified whinny. “Surely there’s something you can do?”  
“Oh aye, if I could get close enough. Hes fit to kick a man to death right now”  
Cullen cursed under his breath. He’d grown so fond of the horse, he didn’t care for the idea of losing him to an unshakeable madness.   
The soldiers that held the other ropes were struggling just as much as him, trying their hardest to keep the rope tense in case they were caught by its back legs.   
Other soldiers were waiting on the sidelines in case they were called for help, and villagers made their unhelpful exclamations about the welfare of the men.  
When he pulled the rope back over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of silver hair. He turned for a brief moment and saw that the Herald was shouldering past the soldiers. She did not wear her usual expression of distrust or suspicion; her eyes were fixed firmly on the horse. Wordlessly she hopped over the fencing and dropped her bow and quiver to one side. He tried his best to keep focused on the horse, but he could not keep his eyes from her. She stretched out her arms, taking slow steps, her knees bending enough that she was almost crouching.   
“My Lady Herald!” one of his men shouted out in warning. “you’d best keep your distance. Poor things not much given to reason.”  
She ignored the soldier, her attention solely on the horse. The creatures nostrils flared as she came closer, and the muscles in his hindquarters were braced to rear at a moments notice, but she was unmoved, her eyes wide, and strangely soft. She was close enough now that if he so chose to, he could have landed a fatal kick to her head. Gingelry she raised her hand to eye level. “Hamin” she whispered, with a softness he’d never heard in her before. “Hamin, falon. Hamin”

The great black warhorse pulled back his head, his long ears that had a moment ago been pinned against his head twitching upright at the sound. Slowly, very slowly, she stood, keeping her eyes focused on his, and the horse watched her with heavy suspicion, tossing his head as she sidestepped close to one of his men, who looked at her with his jaw dropped in awe. Without looking away, she reached for the rope in his hand, and reluctantly he released it. For one dreadful moment, Cullen thought the beast would seize his chance and charge or kick, but he was suspiciously still, watching her with one very wide eye. “emma falon” she whispered gently, letting the rope slacken in her hands. “Dareth’sahlin. Hamin”  
To his great shock, she stepped right up to him, and although he flicked his head away from her, he accepted her hand upon his neck, smoothing his shimmering coat under her fingers until she reached the bridle and undid the tight knots of all four ropes, all the while her gentle words stilled his wild struggle. Carefully she placed her fingers underneath his chin and slid them back until they gently applied pressure upon the corners of his mouth, which opened just long enough for the bit to drop out. The bridle was unlatched then and fell with a soft thud to the ground.   
“What is his name?” she asked suddenly, switching from her own tongue to common in an instant, and he realized she was speaking to him.   
“Hadrian” He replied, looking to the poor creature with pity. He’d named him after a legendary steed from a book he’d read as a child. “His name is Hadrian”  
“Hah-dree-ehn” she tested the name with a strange twist of her own accent, running her fingers through his thick mane until he stilled. “Good name, strong name, for a strong horse”  
Hadrian snuffled at her arm and gave a great snort, and with the slightest pressure from her hand upon his flank, he lowered his head and sank down to the ground, lying flat on his side, his big yellow eyes drooping when he finally succumbed to the tiredness of his exertion. The Herald bowed her head and breathed a great sigh, her long fingers gently running along his side until she reached his head, her mouth moving silently as though she catalogued everything she felt beneath her hands. His soldiers hastily seized the opportunity to withdraw. Only he and Dennet remained. “Maker, that was something else” the old man breathed, shaking his head in wonder. “You’d make a fine horsemaster, Herald. The beast took kindly to you as if you spoke the same language.”  
“He’s fearful of the thunder” she said, her voice soft and laced with sadness. “His ears are sensitive to the low rumble, and its constant.”  
“Aye” Dennet agreed heartily. “I’ll mix the poor thing a rescue remedy. Might help him calm enough to sleep until he gets used to it.”  
“His master should do it” she said, her eyes flashing up at Cullen.  
“I’d be happy to” he agreed, frowning at the proud Hadrian in his tired, fretful state. “I’d hate to lose him to madness. He’s been a fine steed to me.”  
“Then take care of him yourself” she said firmly, straightening herself upright and picking up her bow, casting a glance at the horse before she swung her leg over the fence. “He’ll appreciate his riders reassurance. ”  
It occurred to him that since the departure of the Dalish a week prior, he had seen very little of the Herald outside of the war room before today. The gate guards reported on her activity, of course, stating that every morning at dawn she would climb to the top of the hill behind the chantry and disappear for a short spell, and when she returned, it was only to fetch her arrows before she headed for the slopes across the bridge. She would disappear for hours on end so long as no pressing matters kept her in Haven, and rarely spoke to others unless it was necessary. He was remiss about the idea of her leaving alone, when still there were many undecided, powerful people who might have been more inclined to strike at such an opportune time. But he nor any other could rightly enforce a rule of supervision upon her. He’d seen for himself how she reacted to such things, and after all as she so readily professed, she was no prisoner. She held to her own ways, after all.

And her own father had ridden far to remind them all of that…

“Herald Lavellan!” he called out to her before she disappeared again. 

She stopped suddenly and turned her head back to him, cocked to one side as she observed him with a raised brow.

Hadrian would have to wait until the horsemaster’s rescue remedy was prepared. He left the horse pen and walked towards her, feeling as sheepish as a boy when he realized he owed her a great deal for her aid. “I…” he chewed at his lower lip for a moment before something came to mind. “I owe you thanks for what you did for Hadrian. I had worried he would have to be…put down, if he could not be calmed. You’ve spared me from making an immensely difficult decision.”

“Perhaps you ought to try empathizing with your steed, rather than contemplating his death without cause” she remarked pointedly, her previously soft, pretty eyes reverting to their usual stony coolness. 

Cullen could not help but contemplate the poignant nature of those words. He didn’t particularly understand the workings of a horses mind, and before today he had not thought much upon it. “How did you know it was the thunder that bothered him so much?” 

“Horses have sensitive ears” she said coolly, and he saw her own long, pointed ears twitch in response. 

“Does it…bother you a great deal?”

She shook her head. “I’ve lived in the mountains long enough to have grown accustomed to it. It is its source that bothers me more.”

“As it bothers us all” he agreed grimly, looking up at the great maelstrom in the sky that remained an ominous reminder of the imminent threat it possessed. 

He turned his attention to his troops, who were still loudly practicing in the training yard. He was glad to see their form was improving, and that for the most part there was less fumbling and clumsiness in their movement. Within a few more weeks they would be ready for deployment, he hoped, and with luck there might even be an influx of new recruits if the inquisition continued to gain footholds across Ferelden and Orlais. He thought back to the arrival of clan Lavellan, how fearless and sure-footed they were in such few numbers. He had been surprisingly disappointed that they had not vouched to stay and fight alongside his men, though there was also an immense sense of relief at their departure. Karadhras Lavellan made his dislike for him immensely clear from the moment he so much as glanced at him, for reasons he could not understand but could only imagine. Having someone like that around would have been a nightmare for him, especially given his paternal affiliation with the Herald, who mistrusted him a great deal herself. 

One of the recruits came under a heavy assault from his opponent and rather than pressing back, he started making a rather cowardly retreat from him before a clean hit could be landed. “You there!” he shouted, cursing under his breath when the fool turned his head and left himself open for a heavy hit from his more competent opposition, shrieking at the clang of steel against the metal of his pauldron. “There’s a shield in your hand, block with it! If that man were your enemy you’d be dead by now!”

Beside him the Herald snorted in amusement at the foolish youngsters incompetence. He gestured at Lieutenant Rylen, his second in command, who was overseeing the training with his usual disciplined but quiet manner. He left them momentarily and marched over to where they stood. “Lieutenant, don’t hold back. The recruits must prepare for a real fight, not a practice one.”

Rylen thumped his fist against his breastplate, emblazoned with the flaming sword crest of the Templar order, and returned to his post, barking orders at the recruits as he walked through them with scrutinizing eyes seeking out any faults he might have previously overlooked. Cullen crossed his arms and sighed. “We’ve received a number of recruits- locals from Haven and some Pilgrims..” He glanced down at the Herald, raising a brow. “None made quite the entrance you did.”  
He was expecting a sharp retort, but there was a rather secretive amusement flickering in her eyes that didn’t quite meet the rest of her face. “I am not one for spectacular entries. I can assure you it was not what I had intended.”  
“I’d be worried if it was” he said frankly. “I was recruited to the Inquisition in Kirkwall, myself. I was there during the mage uprising - I saw firsthand the devastation it caused. Cassandra sought a solution. When she offered me a position, I left the Templars and joined her cause.”  
One of the scouts scurried out from the gates and presented him with a neatly penned report from Ambassador Montilyet. He scanned it over and the young scout handed him a quill for his signature. Another report on rifts in the Hinterlands growing worse, and no doubt there would be a need to establish outposts in the northeast region before the situation got out of hand. He penned a quick signature and handed it back to the scout.  
“Now it seems we face something far worse” he sighed, shaking his head ruefully.  
“I did not think Templars could leave the order with such ease.” she said questioningly, as though it were an impossible concept. “I would have thought it was a hangable offence to abandon the forces of the faithful.”  
As scathing a point as it was, he had to concede to the truth in that. “In a different time perhaps” was all he could manage to speak of the order. It was not a pleasant topic for him, and he had enough experience of her opinions of Templars to know that feeling was mutual for clandestine reasons. “And that is why the Inquisition is needed. The chantry lost control of both the Templars and mages. Now they argue over the new Divine while the breach remains. The inquisition could act where the chantry cannot. Our followers would be a part of that. There is so much we can-“  
He was rambling, he could hear it in his own words, passionate and proud of his place and rarely one to speak of it, and it was only that strangely curious look from the Herald that made his words trail off. He shook his head with a slightly embarrassed grin at his own boyish loyalty. “Forgive me, I doubt you came here for a lecture.”  
She looked up at him, lips drawn tight, and folded her arms across her chest. “No, but you look as though you have one prepared. Perhaps you ought to get it off your chest before you burst.”  
The terminology was enough to make him laugh. “Another time perhaps.”  
And when she looked up at him again, her tight lips spread into a wide grin of amusement. Maker, but she had a beautiful smile….  
“I…”he had to catch his breath for a moment, and cursed the warmth in his cheeks that were reddening with every second he drank in the sudden softness of her dark, smooth features. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “there is…still a lot of work ahead.”  
The sight of another scout scurrying up the hill towards him waving a fresh report in his hand very nearly had him loudly exclaiming “thank the maker!”.   
“Ser! A report from Sister Lelliana” he said, holding out the missive.   
He took it quickly and gave the Herald a nod, trying wholeheartedly to sound as professional as possible. “As I was saying. If you’ll excuse me, Herald.”  
She offered no more than a shrug, and he raised his hand to shield his face from her before she realized just how much she made him blush with such a simple gesture. 

Maker, why did she make him blush so much?


	28. The Life of the Wild Ones

Josephine was glad to have been given a quiet office away from the constant clamour of the village where she could tend to her business in peace, or at least in the silence she needed to keep her head relatively clear while she penned a dozen letters and reports an hour to the many potential allies of the inquisition.   
Her position was not one many would envy, for all the headaches and stress it entailed, but she had been born and bred for it and tolerated it relatively well. She had one of the servants bring her a good meal at least twice a day, for she rarely left the chantry unless she truly needed a moment to breath in the recent days. She had known that taking on the role of Ambassador to the Inquisition would require a relentless amount of diligence and patience, but sometimes she still grew weary of the seemingly endless pile of new papers that found there way into her office.   
Today in particular she had set aside her usual routine in favour of a more pressing matter. After the dramatic events in Orlais, she had a mind to see how the minds of the masses were turning, and Lelliana had been helpful in sending her spies into the city to report on the general opinions of the inquisition. Lelliana had not been made a hand of the Divine without reason. The chantry valued equal measures of faith and subtlety highly, and the Nightingale was a candidate without measure. The information was delivered to her desk within two days, and it was exactly what she needed. Admittedly she had been fearful of the answer she sought. Neither Lelliana nor Cullen had been rightly pleased with the idea of sending the Herald into the heart of malice itself, for Orlais was a vibrant sea of deception and burning, questioning eyes. Lelliana had her agents deployed to keep watch even before the Herald and her retinue had set foot in the city, to ensure no assassination plots were afoot. Cullen had, in his usual way, grumbled about the madness of the idea. Cassandra stayed close to her and kept a close look, and Herald Lavellan had looked less than pleased with the prospect of guardianship from the Seeker, and even less pleased with the Commanders complaints. The elf did not hesitate when the idea was put forth, though there was a clear tension in her that others might have failed to notice. Orlais was not known to have a good tolerance of elves, city or wild, and that was a fact known all across the land. Josephine had been terribly fearful of the results of the outing. The chantries approval was paramount if they wished to rise in the world, and without it they would be reduced to a crumbling ruin and a failed cause. As optimistic a person as she was, and as much as she cared to believe in others, Herald Lavellan was near enough unpredictable in her mindset, and old hatreds could easily have tilted the playing field and wiped them off the map if the circumstances were aligned the wrong way.   
And yet, whether it was by the Templars great and atrocious foolishness or the Heralds own tenacity, the day had been won for them, and not only had the elf returned with a head still on her shoulders, but with two good allies in tow. The Influencial Madame De Fer was highly thought of and well known in a great many powerful circles, and Josephine very nearly leapt for joy when she had received the missive requesting a good room in Haven from the noblewoman herself. The second was less impressive but perhaps of good value as well. A friend of the Red Jenny, a barely-known organization that spanned across Thedas, perhaps no more than rabble-rousers and minor spies, but an asset they could use nonetheless. Sera had a mischievous look about her and was far from quiet, but there was always use for those who knew the back-alleys.   
And the horsemaster, of course, she could not forget about Master Dennet and his fine, well-bred Ferelden steeds. They urged her to convince him to part with some, but she had apparently convinced him to join the cause and tend to all his finest steeds within the walls of Haven.   
The Herald might have been greatly foreign, perhaps even too brazen and solitary for the liking of most, but she had a way about her that seemed to win them fine assets, and Josephine was glad of it all.   
Others, however, were less understanding, and good deeds were overlooked in favour of old superstition. The reports had been varied, and where some points gave her hope, others made her worry, for both the safety of the Herald, and for the reputation of the Inquisition.   
She looked up from the report and called out to one of the on-duty guardsmen. “If you could fetch the Herald for me please”  
She set aside her papers and flexed the aching fingers that had been grasping her quill since dawn. She hadn’t had the chance to speak with the Dalish elf alone since her arrival, and she had a mind to get to know her better for a number of reasons. She’d played host to many a nobleman and commoner since she had begun managing the Montilyet estates, and even more since taking her post with the Inquistion, but she had never had the same pleasure with the nomadic elves. When the Lavellan outriders had come to the gates of Haven, she had been greatly flustered at the prospect of entreating with them. Their customs were so strange, and she had sat as stiff as a board through the entire meeting, fearful of offending them with even the slightest gesture. She’d been even more fearful of how the Commander might cause offense. He hadn’t gotten off on the right foot with the Herald herself, and her father seemed to bear less tolerance in his composure than his daughter.   
“Wine” she thought, opening the cabinet beside her and searching for a good, flavourful label. The elves seemed to enjoy good wine, though she had nothing that could compare in heat to the wine the Warleader had shared with them. “Perhaps a Fereldan spicewine will do…”  
The heavy wooden door creaked open and the Herald poked her head around the door frame. “Did you need something, Ambassador?”  
“Yes…well, not precisely” she admitted sheepishly, placing the wine bottle on the table. She gestured to the empty seat in front of her. “please have a seat.”  
Herald Lavellan took a seat before her and eyed the papers stacked high upon her desk with curiosity. “Would you care for some wine?” Josephine enquired pleasantly. “Or perhaps tea, or maybe mead?I can ask one of the servants to-“  
“Wine is…fine, thank you” she said quickly, stopping her before she could gesture for one of the servants assistance.   
She poured a half-glass for her and passed it across the table before pouring one for herself. “I should like to know if anyone here has treated you unkindly, Herald” she said carefully. “ for…being an elf.”  
It was not a topic she wished to broach. Cultural differences caused enough trouble between Human nations, it was even more a common thing with elves. She had hated the way the nobles, and even members of her own family, had always spoken of elves with such blatant disregard. “Knife-ear” was a common phrase in any language, after all, and it was far from a term of endearment. Elven servants were seen as weak and pathetic, base-born creatures by the nobility, though they fit in with a little more ease amongst the commoners. Dalish elves were a different story. Every child was raised hearing frightful tales and forboding warnings of the wild ones. The chantry did their best to fuel the peoples fears, for surely no creature could ever be good and moral if they worshipped any god but the maker. And yet small numbers of humans still held to the old tribalistic ways, and rarely came under such animosity. She considered it a matter of great interest, but likely better one studied and theorized by scholars.  
The Herald sipped at the wine, gazing deeply at the contents as though they might yield an answer to her question. “Less than I would expect, given the circumstances.”  
She needn’t have said anymore. It was clear enough to see that people had not taken kindly to an elf becoming a symbol of divine providence. Commoners and nobles had set their tongues wagging since news first spread, the only difference between the two classes was the element of danger one possessed over the other, and yet both combined could cause revolt in so short a space of time. Josephine sighed and pulled a fresh piece of parchment from the desk drawer and set to work. “I shall speak with the staff regarding such conduct.”  
“Please, you need not go to such trouble” the Herald protested ardently.   
But she was already penning her thoughts on the matter for those that would require a reminder of the importance of the situation. She would make sure to write a more detailed report for the commander for dictation to his men. She had gone to great lengths to quell recent situations with some of the more rowdy new soldiers, involving an unfortunate incident with a young elven girl who had complained of harassment when tending to her duties in the tavern.   
“If we are to convince the world that Andraste’s herald is an elf. The inquisition must give you its utmost support.” She said assuringly. “stories of wild Dalish elves have grown even more outlandish since people have learned of you.”  
The Herald’s brow quirked, and she could have sworn there was a hint of amusement in her glittering eyes. “Stories?” she asked, rather innocently. “What sort of stories?”  
“Oh, i..” Josephine felt a prickling heat rising along the column of her neck, a sudden shame at the thought of repeating all that she had heard. “It would be…inappropriate to repeat them.”  
“Tell me” she insisted, swirling the cup so that the splash of wine almost echoed in the otherwise quiet room. “Give me something, at least”  
she pushed aside the paper and folded her hands on the table, chewing at her lip. “Stealing children, selling peasants to slavers, burning down villages, using infants for blood magic…that is what they say of your fellow Dalish, I wont repeat what they said about you.”  
And that list was certainly less flattering. She had come to her office after breakfast to find a detailed report of idle gossip shared between half-drunken soldiers. “Commander Cullen best watch himself around that she-elf” one man had shouted across a bustling table of off-duty troops. “heard them wild knife-eared girls can seduce a man with a song. Use ‘em for rituals to make demons and feed them to their dark brood when they get what they want.”  
“Oh aye! I’ll hear that song of hers gladly!” his compatriot had jested. “not a bad way to die that. Bet them girls do more than sing with those pretty mouths.”  
It was highly vulgar and certainly something best left unsaid to the Herald. Maker only knew how she might take that one, especially at such an implication that included the commanders name, and all because of one supposed brief conversation shared between the two of them a day before.   
“Those that spread those stories are often the first to raise a knife against us” The Herald said grimly. “We’ve been forced to defend ourselves against those accusations for longer than I can say, and reassurances have never sufficed.”  
“Really” Josephine looked at the young Dalish elf whos eyes betrayed a distant sadness she dared not question. “I…had no idea. I will do what I can to end such slanders.”  
And she meant it too. She had an opportunity placed in her lap that might help end the hostility, the animosity that drove two factions apart and secured firm enmity between the two sides of a war that few ever thought upon until they saw its victims. The Herald did not look like a victim in truth, but deep within those eyes she sense a childhood had been cut to short in its prime when this secret war had stolen away the dreaminess of youth.  
The Herald said nothing, only nodding as she cleared the cups contents with a hearty sip. “The wind can beat at the mountain from the dawn of time until the end of days” she said at last. “but the mountain will still stand, unmoving, even when the winter winds strip away its stone-skin, it will never truly change.”  
Josephine stared at her, her mouth trembling with a want to say something, anything that might match such a profound statement. The Herald spoke little with words and often with action, as dozens of reports clarified. Yet when she did speak, there was something in her words that was often as chilling as it was comforting. She was sure of herself, even when doubt surrounded her in every step. She held her head high, even when whispers and slander threatened to drown her.   
“Herald Lavellan” she said softly. “it may help if I knew more of how your clan lived”  
the chair in front of her was pushed back with such suddenness that she feared that she had overreached herself with such a request, but she breathed a sigh of relief when the Herald sat back and crossed one leg over the other, a gesture of suspicion, but thankfully not a hostile or angry one. “Why should you wish to know?” she asked guardedly.   
“for the sake of truth” she said assuredly.   
“A hard life” she said simply. “A good life. A life of honour and loyalty, that is how we lived. We took to the mountains for the winter when no others would dare brave the cold, until we could scarce feel the chill against our skin. We migrated with the great herds of the north when the beasts grew fat and coats so thick they’d yield enough fur to clothe the entire clan for the whole year. “  
Josephine listened intently, her quill working speedily as she took note of everything. The Herald recounted the details with immense pride in every word. “In the Summers we would descend to the roving forests of the East when the snow at the mountain base had thawed, the best time of the year for herb foraging.” A wistful smile spread across her face and her features grew soft as though she had disappeared into her own memories, barely present in anything but her physical form. “My blood-sisters and I would take to the trees and climb high enough to see the sea of wilderness before us, stretching so far you could barely see the flatland beyond. The men would spear fish in the streams and we’d chastise them for their hot-bloodedness and swear they would all make poor mates to sensible women. We would hunt and sing and dance until the dawn with laughter on our lips and joy in our hearts, through rain and snow and hardship, we wanted for nothing.”  
“Oh, it sounds Idyllic” Josephine breathed. “You must miss them a great deal.”  
She nodded distantly, thumbing the rim of her cup. “It is the only life I have ever known, my whole world before I came to the conclave. “  
Josephine frowned and lowered her head. No wonder her clansmen had ridden so far to see her safety. Their world was a small one in contrast to the world she had known, where a person could scarcely be considered of importance unless they had the coin and the blood to be called noteworthy. From all that she said, she could sense the sadness at being ripped from the life she had lived and loved with pride, and Josephine felt a true sense of empathy towards the young woman who was thrust into a foreign world filled with unfamiliar faces.   
“You know” she said, leaning forward, recalling something that might lift the air of sadness from the room. “Commander Cullen thought you must have been a very highborn lady amongst your clan to have such a force ride across the land to see your safety. I believe he even thought you a princess, and your father surely some sort of warrior king.”  
“A princess?” she asked, her voice trembling with the urge to laugh. “Gods, did he truly?”  
“Oh yes.” She said with a giggle. “I’m afraid our fearless Commander is perhaps not so educated on cultural customs beyond his own. He thought it very strange indeed. He worried that the inquisition might have overstepped itself. It flustered him greatly, though I think perhaps your father may have intimidated him slightly, even if he would never admit it”  
“ The Dalish have no Kings or Princesses” The herald stated bluntly, shaking her head with amusement, her long braid jingling at the movement. “but I suppose I should think it quite flattering, or quite offensive. I’ve been called many things I care not to repeat. I do not know how to take that.”  
“Flattery I should think” She replied pointedly. “though perhaps unintended flattery nonetheless. Commander Cullen is like a man with a hammer who sees everything as a nail. He is nothing if not blunt.”  
And that earned a true and earnest roar of laughter from the Herald. “No finer description for someone like that, I think.”  
Josephine breathed a heavy sigh of relief to see the air of tension shift from the elf’s shoulders. “Alas, this world must be quite a strange one for you, Herald. “ She always wondered if the title bothered her a great deal, but she felt it innapropriate to ask for her true name. “We will do our best to make sure it is accommodating to you though, it is the least we can do. Though no doubt it will not compare a great deal to life amongst your people.”  
“its kind of you to say” she said earnestly. “I can endure, though, at least until this business with the breach is done. Then I will ride home with many a tale to tell.”

From the determined look in her eyes, she sensed not a moment would be spared when that day came, and Josephine found herself feeling a little sad at the thought.


	29. Of Wardens and Chargers

Etain grew restless as the days went by. The war council moved at a snails pace, debating every decision great and small. Their varied skillset and knowledge of their professional field yielded little in the way of shared opinions. The map of Thedas was dotted with a dozen iron markers that represented the action that would be taken in that region; the iron fist for the military, the lidless eye of the inquisition for the diplomatic purpose, and the nightingale for subtlety. Large flat coins marked areas of interest that needed watching, mainly Val Royeaux and the outerlying regions, where Ferelden was littered with chunky triangles that separated the territories.  
“It is a game to them” she thought with disdain. “That is what they call it.” The game.”. The game of lives and bloodshed and politics.”  
She had ample time to observe the intricate placements on the map all the while the council argued amongst themselves. Each one of them excelled in their field of expertise, but none stood to unite them. A body without a head. They had strength, they had subtlety, they had the silver tongue, but no mind to stand outside it all and pick at the facts to make a decision based on wisdom. A keeper would have done them well.  
They barely noticed her sometimes when debates grew heated, and she was thankful for it. She didn’t care for the secrets of nobles and the scandal they kept under lock and key. She didn’t care if stones needed clearing from a path in the Hinterlands because the soldiers needed a wider supply road. She didn’t care if some highborn lady was threatening to disparage the inquisition if they didn’t aid her in making an old enemy disappear. These were the politics of shems, as pointless as they were frivolous and time-consuming. With demons pouring through rifts all across Thedas, her mind was set on the great roaring maelstrom in the sky.  
A recap of the events in Val Royeaux had brought her back to the war table, and this time she had been wise enough to bring a whetstone to occupy herself while the details were discussed, or rather bickered over.  
“It’s a shame the Templars have abandoned their senses as well as the capital” Commander Cullen said irritably, no doubt angered by the report he had re-read a dozen times over since it had been placed in his hands.  
Etain took a seat in the corner of the room and placed her sword on her lap, the sharp edge pointed upwards and steadied at the hilt so she could run the whetstone along the edges. The ring of coarse stone against smooth ironbark was almost therapeutic, and stopped her from delivering a sharp retort to the commander’s surprise at the actions of his brethren. “Contact with both factions” she said absently, running a finger over the sharp barb above the blades hilt to test its sharpness. “a better idea of how to approach them.”  
“I am not so sure” Cassandra contested pessimistically. “Lord seeker Lucius is not the man I remember.”  
“True. He has taken the order somewhere, but to do what?” Lelliana said thoughtfully, staring at the map. “my reports have been…very odd.”  
“We must look into it. I’m certain not everyone in the order will support the Lord Seeker.” It was plainly obvious where the former Templars allegiances lay.  
She ran the whetstone along the sword so fast that it whistled at the contact, a high, sharp sound. It would need to be sharpened to perfection before she left.  
Mahvir, she called it, for the blade gave her the gift of another day every time it shed the blood of an enemy with ill-intent. The blade in her back-sheath was Banal’ras the shadow, for it was rarely seen and rarely needed, a fallback for the worst case scenario on the field.  
“Or the Herald could simply meet with the mages in Redcliffe instead?” Ambassador Montilyet ventured.  
Her head jerked up at the mention of her begrudged title. Josephine offered her the smallest of smiles, as though she knew how her mind was working through the situation already. Etain liked the ambassador. She might have been an idealist, and perhaps a little too cheerful at times for someone who was very good at hiding her own secrets, but she had a sweetness about her that was unmistakably genuine.  
“You think the mage rebellion is more united?” Cullen said with a heavy sense of doubt. “it could be ten times worse!”  
The eyes of the war council fell upon her all at once, and she looked back at them with a brow raised questioningly. They wanted her opinion on the matter. “What does my opinion matter?” She wondered. She was the tool, not the delegator. If the inquisition had a leader, they would be looking at them right now, not her.  
Observing the opinions of an elf….a dangerous move for those who wanted to rise high in the world. She simply looked back at them with a blank expression. She had plenty of thoughts on the matter, but instinct told her it was too early to speak them. “A decision that requires careful thought, I would imagine.”  
Thankfully they took the answer without question, though yet another debate unfolded that she watched with a bored expression. The clan elders argued constantly over matters of importance, but they never wasted time like these ones did. The difference, she supposed, was that they could hardly be considered elders. None of them looked a day over thirty, save for Cassandra, who seemed to have a little less patience for nonsense even with her own solid mindset that spoke of more life experience. Yet had any of them faced the responsibility of open leadership?  
Etain pocketed the whetstone and placed her sword in its wooden sheath. She got to her feet and strolled over to the war table, scrutinizing the perfectly placed markers. Her eyes first fell upon the top northwest corner, where the ambassadorial marker highlighted the area where her clansmen were dwelling. It wasn’t exact, in fact it was at least two miles off. They wouldn’t be near the peaks at a time like this. The valley provided better cover. She didn’t trust the security of marking out so many locations when anyone could have walked in and seen it. The larger a cause grew, the easier it would be for their enemies to slip through into their ranks and survey their plans.  
When there was nothing left to discuss, the council was dismissed and everyone returned to their duties. Josephine hurried off to her office so quickly that the candle on her little lectern spluttered and left a trail of wax on the stone floor. Cullen passed her with the slightest hint of a smile that she could only have described as hesitant and confused looking. She still bore little trust for him, but the chantry-bred commander was the least of her concerns. He could be amiable at times, but his ignorance made her wary.  
“Herald a moment if you please” Lelliana said quietly when they were alone.  
She shot a quick glance behind her to ensure no one remained within earshot.  
“Several months ago, the grey wardens of Ferelden Vanished” she said frankly. “I sent word to those in Orlais, but they have also disappeared.”  
Etain stared at her for a long moment, unsure of how to take the sudden revelation the woman presented. “Vanished?”  
“Ordinarily I wouldn’t even have considered the idea they’re involved in this but…the timing is most curious.”  
She knew of the Grey Wardens. She had been twelve when the blight began, still a fledgling by the standards of her people. When Ostagar fell to the darkspawn, the civil war in Ferelden leant more chaos to an already tumultuous time. Fear and uncertainty ate away at the land with as much hunger as the Darkspawn horde itself. Thankfully the mountains had brought the clan sanctuary, but it was not long before an envoy from their cousin clan in the Brecillian forest brought news of a call to arms. The ancient treaties had been invoked, and her kinsmen heeded the call. Her own parents rode to war with half the outriders in tow, to join the best warriors and hunters her people could offer, and for weeks they waited, unmoving from their position of the peaks, for their safe return. Etain, no more than a girl, had sat by the borders of camp with a spear ever clutched in trembling hands, hoping the gods would hear her soft prayers even in their slumber, and bring her parents home safely. 

Less than half of the Lavellan hunters made it back alive. The war was won at the cost of great sacrifice.It took years to recover what was lost, but nothing could bring back the dead. Those who had not returned were buried in their rightful place and honoured as heroes. Neither her father or mother spoke of the battle. No one did. It stayed with them all for some time, but eventually, life went on.

“it sounds more than odd” she said roughly, blinking until the image of sullen, weary hunters walking through the snow banks faded from her vision. 

“The others have disregarded my suspicion. But I cannot ignore it.” Lelliana blinked too, much the way she did, and Etain wondered what it was that she was pushing away. “Two days ago, my agents in the Hinterlands heard news of a grey warden named Blackwall. If you have the opportunity, please seek him out. Perhaps he can put my mind at ease.”

“And if he can’t?” 

The nightingales eyes were hardened with forced determination. “Then there may be more going on than we thought.”

 

Children scurried around the supply tents, unsupervised and engrossed in a game of catch, tossing a small leather ball at one another and laughing wildly when one of them stumbled and fell face first into the snow.  
The requisition officers barely noticed them as they worked, counting supplies and talking amongst themselves.  
Etain watched the children for a time, a wistful smile upon her lips. They were small, chubby little things, and somehow their wide eyes weren’t drawn to the mountains drenched in sickly green light. They looked happy, unburdened, and wholly innocent of the danger that was stalking the land.  
One of the boys threw the ball too hard, and rather than catch it, the little girl merely ducked her head and squealed as she ran to avoid it. It rolled across the snow until it knocked against the side of her boot. She knelt to pick it up, and the girl who had run to catch it stopped dead inches from her and stared at her like a wild deer cornered by a predator.  
The boys stopped running too, and suddenly all of them stood frozen like statues. They were afraid, it was all too obvious. Something about that made her sad. Children had a great power within them that adults struggled to find. The power to trust without hesitation, anyone and anything they crossed paths with. Only when their elders told them not to trust something did they learn to feel fear of it.  
Etain crouched low until her eyes were on level with the girls, and held the ball out to her. The little one chewed at her lip, swaying shyly as she searched for an adult to give her leave to take it.  
“I don’t bite” Etain said softly, offering her a gentle smile.  
Hesitantly the girl reached out her little hand and snatched the ball from her hand. She thought she would run then and be away from her, but she stood for a moment with a curious look upon her pudgy face.  
“Mama says elfs are mean” she said with the blunt honesty only a child could possess. “You aren’t mean though...are you?.”  
Etain shook her head. “Only to monsters.”  
The little one giggled, no longer afraid. Fearlessly she reached out and touched the etched lines of her Vallaslin. Etain admired her brazenness and closed her eyes when the girl traced the lines on her cheeks. “Do you like them?”  
The girl nodded. “they’re so pretty.”  
“Marks grown ups wear where I come from.” She said, explaining as simply as she could to one who knew only bad things of elven culture.  
“I want pretty marks when I’m a grown up!” the girl declared, running back to the other children to resume their game.  
Etain couldn’t help but smile at that. She didn’t dare tell the child of the real nature of her Vallaslin, of the deeply religious aspect it held, nor the pains of its application. To scream or cry when the knife cut into the skin marked a person unprepared for adulthood. It took a whole night to finish, a night spent in silence with gritted teeth and no moments of relief until dawn came and the ink became a permanent mark. This child would never know that pain, but it was sweet of her to see them as a thing of beauty and not the mark of a monster.  
“Excuse me” came a deep voice from behind her, and when she turned, she regarded the armour-clad speaker with a raised brow. “I’ve got a message for the inquisition, but im having a hard time getting anyone to talk to me.”  
The boy had neatly shorn, dark brown hair and olive-coloured skin that suggested an upbringing far from the southlands. Yet when she approached and looked closer, she could see the boy was not a boy in entirety. Any aspect of femininity this person had was bound behind tightly strapped bandaging and hidden under shapeless armour and ill-fitting clothing. A curious thing, but she didn’t question the reasons behind it. The boy that was not all male had a handsome enough face that few would ever have labeled with such a womanly label as beautiful or fair. The broadness he had at the shoulders lended aid to the pretense. 

“Who are you then, soldier?” she enquired curiously, noting the straight back of a military upbringing.  
“Cremisius Aclassi, with the Bull’s Chargers mercenary company. We work mostly out of Nevarra and Orlais. We’ve got word of some mercenaries working out on the Storm Coast. My Company Commander, Iron Bull, offers the information free of charge. If you’d like to see what the Bull’s Chargers can do for the inquisition, meet us there and watch us work.”  
A well calculated offer, she thought with a smirk. She admired the boys tenacity and wondered why no one had thought to speak with this one sooner. A Tevinter, she realized, for the name alone could have been mistaken for no less.  
But she was more curious about his leader, this Iron bull, and his mercenary company. She could have brought it to the war table and sought the opinions of the council but she had only just escaped from the stifling room. She was the Herald of Andraste, was she not? Surely the title was useful for more than just a defence against the rabble.  
“Tell me more of your leader.” She said, wishing to know more before she jumped headlong into an expedition without facts.  
The boy answered every question without hesitation, speaking proudly of his commander, a great Qunari warrior who lead from the front and took a liking to the Inquisitions work. Etain knew of the Qunari, and she liked them. She’d seen few in her time, but those she had seen were as ruthless as they were calculating. Their principles were strict and disciplined, and something about their way of life made for mutual friendships between her kind and theirs. It was impossible to discern why, but it had been that was for generations. The chargers had sent a gift of information that might have proven vital, and without a doubt she wished to see them for herself. She’d spied a marker placed over the Storm Coast, and knew it would not be difficult to venture their after investigating Lelliana’s lead with the Wardens.  
“I can see no reason not to see your company in action” she said agreeably, and the boy looked pleased.  
“I appreciate it” he said. “we’re the best you’ll find. Come see for yourself and you wont regret it.”

Etain watched him go and sighed gratefully. Too long she had been sitting and waiting for a reason to leave. Haven yielded little in the way of a good hunt, for the beasts were small with little meat on them, all nugs and fennecs without so much as a sign of deer. She would leave a message with the guards and perhaps send word from the forward camp in the storm coast, though she couldn’t tell when she might return.

She looked forward to it, and Etain had always loved the sea.


	30. Warden Blackwall and the Bull's Chargers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recruitment abound! And what will Commander Cullen do with all these strays?

“Blackwall? Warden Blackwall?”

Etain had not been sure until she saw the griffon seal printed upon the big man’s chestplate. No one but a Warden would wear a crest of the long-dead beast of legend. She had found him addressing three lanky youngsters sporting cheap-looking weapons and worn bucklers. When he turned, he looked almost angry at the sound of the name. He marched towards her with his weapon in hand and regarded her with great suspicion in his dark eyes. “How do you know my name?” He demanded.  
She heard the twang of an arrow behind her and pulled her blade from her sheath, ducking behind the suddenly raised shield of the warden. It hit the tarp-covered wood with a dull thud. Warden Blackwall gave her a quick, sharp look and cursed under his breath. “That’s it. Help or get out!” he growled, already on the move towards the assailants. “We’re dealing with these idiots first! Conscripts! Here they come!”  
The young lads looked frightened when the attackers roared and made to charge, even though there were only three of them as well, and not particularly any better off in the ways of weaponry. She didn’t think much on it. The situation had suddenly grown rather confusing when all she had wanted was a quick answer from a Grey Warden. It could hardly be called a fight in truth. Blackwall’s conscripts found their courage and charged, and only when one of them lost his shield did she deliver a fatal blow to the one who assaulted him. She looked across to the waterside where Blackwall brought his sword down on the man at his feet. For a moment the dying man jerked and convulsed, but then he grew still, and the fight was over as quick as it had begun.  
The old warden stabbed the sword into the ground and delivered his charges a bolstering speech….before releasing them from the rite of conscription. The boys looked relieved, dropping their weapons and making a hasty departure from the area and the heavy scent of blood that surrounded it. She had left her traveling companions back at the camp, not a far stretch from the fishing shack where she’d been told she would find the one she was searching for. It wasn’t as though she needed their help for the sorry little scuffle that had just transpired.  
“You’re no farmer” the Warden said warily. “why do you know my name? who are you?”  
“That would depend on who you ask” she stated honestly, dipping her blade into the lake to wash the sanguine droplets from its edge. “I was charged with investigating Grey Wardens on behalf of the inquisition, to see if their disappearance might have something to do with the death of the Divine.”  
If this man knew of any part the Wardens might have played in the Divine’s murder, he certainly didn’t show it. He looked just as confused as she had been at the notion of it. “Maker’s balls, the wardens and the Divine?” He sighed, pacing irritably back and forth as he considered the thought. “That cant…no, you’re asking, so you don’t really know. First off, I didn’t know they disappeared. But we do that, right? No more blight, job done. Wardens are the first thing forgotten. But one thing I’ll tell you; no Warden killed the Divine. Our purpose is not political.”  
It sounded more like a statement of loyalty than a factual opinion. He didn’t know his fellow wardens had disappeared, after all, and Wardens had involved themselves in political affairs in the past. The Hero of Ferelden had deposed the reign of Teyrn Loghain during the civil war, and that could hardly be called an impartial act. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to accuse their cause of the assassination. She had been on the receiving end of that accusation once, who could say if there was any justification for accusing another without ample evidence.  
“I have no intention of making an accusation. Not yet” she said earnestly. “I just need information. If you are here, then where are the other wardens?”  
“I haven’t seen any Wardens for months. I travel alone, recruiting.” he said guardedly, as though the information was reluctantly given. “Not much interest since the archdemon is a decade dead, and no need to conscript because there’s no blight coming. Treaties give wardens the right to take what we need, who we need. These idiots forced this fight, so I conscripted their victims. They had to do what I said, so I told them to stand. Maybe next time they wont need me. Grey Wardens can inspire, make you better than you think you are.”  
She didn’t want to think of the rite of conscription, nor the blight a decade past.  
“Surely you know something of their whereabouts?” she said, trying to draw at least some information of use from the illusive man. “where might they have gone?”  
He merely shrugged, as though it were hardly a cause for concern. “Perhaps back to our fortress at Weissaupt? That’s in the Anderfells to the North. I don’t really know, can’t imagine why they would all disappear at the same time, or where too.”  
It was pointless to press it any further. The man seemed to know nothing of his own people. She’d certainly set out with higher hopes in mind. It hardly cast a good light on the influence of the Wardens if their own representatives were so ill-informed. She would have to return to Lelliana empty-handed. “Well thank you, Warden Blackwall” she said rather sarcastically, sheathing her sword and turning to leave. “But where does this leave us?”  
She left him with a frown on her face as she thought more on the matter. Cassandra would not be rightly pleased with the lack of relevant information, and Lelliana even less.  
“Inquisition...agent, did you say?” Blackwall called out to her. “Hold a moment.”  
The big man lumbered towards her. “The Divine is dead and the sky is torn. Events like these…thinking we’re absent is almost as bad as thinking we’re involved.”  
There was a great deal of logic to his words. “if youre trying to put things right, maybe you need a warden” he said determinedly. “Maybe you need me.”  
“The Inquisition needs as much help as it can get.” She conceded, but she still had her doubts. “what can one grey warden do?”  
Anyone else might have taken offense to that, but Blackwall merely offered her a lopsided grin of amusement. “Save the Fucking world if pressed.” He said with due honesty. “Look, maybe fighting demons from the sky isn’t something I’m practiced at, but show me someone who is. And like I said, there are treaties. Maybe this isn’t a blight, but its bloody well a disaster. Some will honour them. Being a warden means something to a lot of people. “  
She didn’t need a dozen good references to see that he was a capable fighter and a decent sort of man. She didn’t even really desire a consultation from the Seeker on this particular matter. “Aye” she said, extending a hand to him. “Warden Blackwall, the Inquisition accepts your offer.  
“Good to hear” he said with a wide grin, shaking her hand vigorously. “We both need to know what’s going on. And perhaps I’ve been keeping to myself for too long. This Warden walks with the Inquisition.”

Another rank for the cause, and another ally who came along with a helpful asset. The Inquisition could hardly be anything but pleased, and it was at least something to gain from the expedition. The Nightingale might take comfort in that.

Blackwall at least seemed an honest man, and Etain was glad of it.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The weather was far from fine, and the salt of the not too distant sea clung to her skin, wet from the humidity.  
Etain had rarely had rarely glimpsed the coastline so close. The clan stayed inland and traded with the smallfolk of the flatlands. Kirkwall was the largest area of trade, but not a place they cared to venture in, and when the Sabrae’s migrated from the South after the blight, they were wise enough to keep a distance from their sister clan. No two clans ought to have ever been as close for fear of catching the eye of the reigning nobility, but the situation called for it. The Sabrae were hunters without equal, but their numbers had fallen on hard times and left them bereft of most of their Halla herd. When the eyes of the human populous turned to the blight in Ferelden, both clans found one another and stayed close for a time. By the time they had gone their own way they were better off by far, though food was scarce and the hunt was hard. 

 

Scout Harding seemed rather pleased at their arrival when they finally reached the Storm Coast. The young Dwarf seemed to enjoy her charge as a scout leader, and seemed to always be the first to step into a new territory and learn of its secrets. The coast was thick with craggy cliffs and jagged stone, where waves crashed and distant thunder rolled. Her senses were alive with the sight and smell of it all. Her companions took in the sights from the cliffs edge as she listened to Hardings long-winded report. Only Vivienne in her fine silk travelling clothes seemed perturbed by the atmosphere, judging by the way she picked at the slightest speckle of dirt that dare to despoil her fineries. She was pleased to see that their new acquisition had slid into their ranks with such ease. There was a great heartiness about Warden Blackwall, who seemed as comfortable with a life lived rough as he was with idle chatter. Cassandra was rightly pleased to have another shield-bearer at her side, and felt sure that a Wardens input would lend well to the growing army.  
Harding spread her map out on the small table at the center of the camp and ran her finger over the marked points of interests. “There’s a group of bandits operating in the area.” She said informatively. “they know the terrain, and our small party has had trouble going up against them. Some of our soldiers went to speak with their leader. Haven’t heard back though. “  
“I’ll do what I can” she promised, making a mental note of the regions outline in her mind. There was a singular path leading from the camp. Judging by the terrain she could see, the land was either flat and easily travelled, or jagged and vertical. There wouldn’t be much room for improvisation for any group to travel. She could track them, and perhaps even find them alive, though bandits were never known to keep hostages, and the beasts that roamed the area might have held little sympathy for a band of young soldiers wandering unfamiliar territory.  
“Thank you, your worship” the dwarf said with a grateful bow. “that’s a relief. All this fuss has hindered our search for the wardens, too. “  
Your worship. She would have laughed aloud in the stout little womans face if she were not such a well-meaning person. Instead she smiled and offered her thanks for the information. Harding’s eyes brightened at her praise. “Well, good luck, and enjoy the sea air” she said with a sense of half-sarcasm.” I hear its good for the soul.”

When they departed down the trail, the rain began, and left a taste of salt constant on her lips. Pine trees towered above them on the rock-face, some vibrant with thousands of verdant green needles, others stripped entirely of their bounty by the harsh winds, but all the tree trunks bent at the middle towards the open expanse of tumultuous waters. The others complained of the rain and the mud that squelched beneath their boots and drowned their feet in water, but she relished the natural feel of it. She was a far stretch away from Haven, where the streets were brushed clean of snow on a regular basis throughout the day, and every narrow passage smelt of piss. Already she was seeing signs of movement in the brush, deep foot treads from where boots had sunk into the mud of the last rain and left small depressions that filled with water. She noted the direction they went, and stored the knowledge for later. She had come here to find the Bull’s Chargers, and if the soldiers had already been missing for a night and day, they were either already dead or holed up somewhere in the mountain pass.  
Heading down the path, she heard the fighting before she saw it, and when she rounded the corner, her weapon was already in hand. Magic was flailed in every direction, a blinding display of fire and electricity, and in the middle of it all, a ragtag group of fighters who looked about as mismatched as her own retinue.  
They were outnumbered, but hardly defenseless, and Etain needn’t have wondered which one carried so weighty a name as “The Iron Bull”. In the middle of the scuffle stood a huge and fierce looking Qunari with an axe that looked twice the size of her own body, and when he swung, he cleaved right through the two mages in front of him as though they were made of soft butter. An arrow was loosed by a bowyer in brightly coloured vestments and struck him in the arm, burying its head in the sinewy muscle, and yet the fearsome beast took no notice and continued his rampage. It was clear who their enemy was; in all their bright robes and flourished hoods, they could be mistaken for no less than agents of the Imperium. Etain felt little sympathy for them. Tevinter magisters would not travel so far unless they were intent on causing trouble.  
She had come to observe, and observe she had. She saw the hulking Qunari run at his target, and the Tevinter footmen who seized the opportunity to flank him. Although she doubted help was needed, she ran headlong into the fray and ran them through when they approached his back. The Qunari rounded so quickly she thought for a moment he meant to strike her, but his axe was still imbedded in the skull of a mage, and he looked pleasantly amused by her sudden appearance. “Hey there” he said with a wicked smirk, before turning his weapon on the next thing that ran at him.  
Between her own rallied party and his, the scuffle ended with more than twenty dead Tevinters and seven not entirely dead ones begging for a mercy kill.  
“Chargers, stand down!” the big beast bellowed, and turned his attention to a figure she recognized as Cremissius Acclasi. “Krem, how’d we do?”  
“Five or six wounded, chief. No dead!” he declared proudly, cleaning both sides of his longsword with his sleeve.  
“That’s what I like to hear” the Bull said approvingly. “Let the throatcutters finish up, then break out the casks.”  
Amidst the sound of dying cries, the Iron Bull approached her and sized her up. He was missing an eye, which was covered in a strange looking metal plate that was strapped across his head. She could see herself in the polished reflection. “so you’re the inquisition, huh? Glad you could make it. Come on, have a seat. Drinks are coming.”  
“Iron bull, I presume” she said, eyes drawn to the massive curved horns that pointed up to the sky.  
“Yeah, the horns usually give it away.”  
He seated himself on a rock by the waters edge, grunting when he took note of the arrow jutting out of his arm. He snapped it in half an eased the razor-edged head out from the muscle and tossed it aside. His arm bled but barely seemed to bother him. “I assume you remember Cremisius Acclasi, my lieutenant” he said, gesturing to the youngster.  
The boy offered a smile, and the feminine curve of his lips momentarily betrayed his guise. “Good to see you again” he turned to his chief. “Throatcutters are done.”  
“Already?” the bull looked wary. “Have ‘em check again. I don’t want any of those Tevinter bastards getting away. No offense Krem”  
The boy looked unfazed , and even a little amused. “None taken. Least a bastard knows who his mother is. Puts him one up on you Qunari, right?”  
When Krem went to give the directive, the Bull turned back to her and leaned forward in his perch, peering at her with his one good eye. “So, you’ve seen us fight.” He said. “We’re expensive, but we’re worth it…and I’m sure the Inquisition can afford us.”  
Etain could neither confirm nor deny that. Currency came in the form of bartering for her. Gold had little worth unless it had a practical purpose, and very few of her elders even carried it save for what little was kept in the Keepers cache for the trade season. she didn’t keep a purse on her belt like others did, and even if she made a habit of it, she highly doubted the chargers could be bought with a handful of coins. “How much is this going to cost me, exactly?” she asked cautiously.  
“It wouldn’t cost you anything personally, unless you wanna buy drinks later.” He said assuredly. “your ambassador –whats her name- Josephine? We’d go through her and get payments set up. The gold will take care of itself. Don’t worry about that. All that matters is that we’re worth it.”  
She had no doubt of that, but she wasn’t the one who would be forking out the finances. Yet it was growing steadily clear that if she was to be seen as the representative of the Inquisition, she would have to start making decisions for herself, on behalf of the cause she felt very little a part of. She hadn’t done wrong by snapping up Blackwalls offer, nor Vivienne’s, nor even Sera’s, even if she was a wily little troublemaker for the most part. Perhaps she had a better eye for recruitment than she thought. And the chargers might even bolster the ranks of the army and give it a decent reputation. The Iron Bull kept well trained men with varied skills, rightly better than a unit that was practically being breastfed the teachings of Templars. She shuddered at the horrendous mental image that passed through her mind.  
“The Chargers are a fine company” she agreed, trying not to seem too overly pleased at the prospect.  
“They are” the Bull nodded. “But you’re not just getting the boys. You’re getting me.”  
That she did not expect. The company was good, but their leader was of an entirely different caliber. “You need a frontline bodyguard, I’m your man.” He stated, thumping his heavy fist against his chest. “Whatever it is – demons, dragons?” he sounded strangely pleased at the idea of dragons. “ The bigger the better. And theres one other thing. Might be useful, might piss you off. Ever hear of the Ben-Hassrath?”  
It sounded somewhat familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She shook her head. “enlighten me”  
“Qunari order. They handle information, loyalty, security, all of it.” He stated informatively, and then summarized it. “they’re spies, basically. Or, well…we’re spies.”  
There was a long pause, during which time she stared up at him and blinked as rainwater dripped from her eyelashes, and he stood like as still as a large rock and seemed to wait for a reaction. Eventually, he divulged more. “The Ben-Hassrath are concerned about the breach. Magic out of control like that could cause trouble everywhere. I’ve been ordered to join the Inquisition, get close to the people in charge, and send reports on what’s happening. But I also get reports from Ben-Hassrath agents all over Orlais. You sign me on, I’ll share them with your people.”  
“All right, youre in”  
The big Bull regarded her with a raised brow. “Excellent. And the Ben-Hassrath thing is good with you? Most have a little more suspicion for spies when shit’s raining down from the sky.”  
Etain crossed her arms and regarded her own little group of very wet mages and fighters. She looked up at the Iron Bull with a knowing grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “How do you think I got here?”  
The Bull smiled. “I figured as much. You don’t fit the bill for the standard religious icon” he said knowingly. “shit, they must love you.”  
He gave her a hearty thump on the arm that almost sent her staggering backwards. “Krem! Tell the men to finish drinking on the road. The Chargers just got hired!”  
Krem looked down at the open, frothing casks of ale with a dismal look. “what about the casks, chief?” he groaned. “We just opened them up. With axes!”  
“Find some way to seal them” he said impatiently. “You’re Tevinter, right? Try Blood magic.”  
Iron Bull picked up his huge axe and swung it over his shoulder, giving her a wink over his shoulder. “We’ll see you back at Haven.”

Etain was beginning to wish she was there to see his arrival, or rather the shocked faces of the war council when they sighted her newest acquisition. 

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

“I’m sorry…who are you?”

Cullen looked down at the document in his hand, and back up at the hulking Qunari who seemed wholly amused at his dumbstruck reaction. 

“The. Iron. Bull” he stated for the second time, blinking as if he were surprised at the question. He pointed to himself. “IIIIrrrron Bulllll” Then he pointed to the large, odd looking company of individuals at his back. “the chargerrrrrs”

“Yes, yes, I know that!” he snapped, tutting irritably at the Qunari’s blatant mockery. “but who sent you?”

“Oh yeah, didn’t catch the name but..” The Bull scratched his chest and made a number of crude gestures with his hand. “The Dalish one, ya know? ‘bout this tall, nice face, great ass, pointy ears.”

“Herald Lavellan” he said quickly, before he could develop an even more crude description. “Wait, the Herald recruited your company for the Inquisition?”

Without TELLING the Inquisition first.

“Damn straight” the Iron Bull towered above him, and leaned down until his face was uncomfortably close. “So, nice little operation you’ve got here and all, but before we settle in, I’ve gotta see a lady about a payment plan. Know where I can find your Ambassador?”

“She’ll be in the Chantry. I’ll have one of the guards show you the way.” He said flatly, gesturing for one of the less frightened looking recruits to step forward for the task.  
The Iron Bull and his company gladly marched into the village, dragging carts of mead and wine along with them. They looked like a carefree bunch of mercenaries with a taste for good spirits and gold… but they also looked strong and self-assured, not to mention well armed. He’d have to see them fight to make a proper judgement though. He wondered grimly how much their service would cost, and whether they could even afford it. 

Cullen had the feeling he was going to have to grow accustomed to the sheer amount of strange people that seemed to radiate towards Lady Lavellan.


	31. Drinks with the dwarf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric offers his sage advice over a mug or two of ale, and Etain comes to a realisation that may put her exactly where she doesn't want to be.

When night fell upon the village of Haven, the streets grew empty as soldiers and civilians alike packed themselves into the tavern to escape the cold, and wind down after a long day of work. Etain had a mind to seize the chance to enjoy some peace and quiet, but Varric made her promise she would stay a while and have a drink with him, and by him he evidently meant everyone. “you, little lady, need to spend some time amongst the people for a change. Some folks get a little jumpy around a quiet girl who’s known to be good with a sword.” He’d said, and there was wisdom buried beneath his amusing analysis. Etain indulged it, even if it was the last thing she wanted to do.   
The soldiers were loud and jovial, leaving their day of disciplined training far behind them. A bard sat by the fireside with a lute in her hands. Her voice was rather pleasant, though her songs were unfamiliar, and only just rose above the sound of loud ribaldry that reverberated through the rafters.   
She felt immeasurably tense as they shouldered their way to the bar, trying her best not to touch any of the patrons, or draw any sort of unnecessary attention to herself. They were all so tightly packed together that the air felt far too stifled, and she hated walls enough without thirty-odd people crushed in between them.   
People looked up from their drinks as they passed by, that same strange look they often gave her that lasted only a moment before they looked away. Some of them smiled, though most looked sickeningly false, as though they felt obligated to do it as much as they felt it necessary not to swear in a chantry building.   
“Why don’t you go get us a couple of drinks, and I’ll salvage a decent seat” Varric offered, digging a few coins out of his belt pouch.   
She took the coins and leaned over the bar, trying to catch the eye of the young tavern mistress. The girl was serving a group of soldiers, keeping her eyes on the mugs in her hands as she sheepishly handed them over. When she turned back to the bar, she was brushing down her skirts when she caught sight of Etain, and uttered a surprised little gasp. “Oh, you’re her, aren’t you!” she squeaked. “The Herald of Andraste. And you were sent to show us we were wrong to treat the elves unkindly!”  
Etain blinked at the girls sudden outburst. Before she could even show her the coins, she was already pouring drinks and pushing them across the bar. “I’ve always treated elves kindly, you know, always gave the servants a fare wage and a good hot meal for there troubles.”  
She looked rather flustered all of a sudden. “oh, but you’re not from the city are you? Oh I’m sorry. I’m sure your folk aren’t as bad as people say. I mean we’re all the Makers children at the end of the day, aren’t we? Must be some premise for peace in that I say.”  
We’re not the maker’s children, Etain wanted to say, but the girl looked wholly innocent, and clearly a greatly devout person. At least she was the opposite spectrum to the usual sort she was used to. “Thank you for the drinks” she said, leaving Varrics sovereigns as payment even if the girl wouldn’t take them.   
“My names Flissa” the girl said with a gentle smile. “Lelliana brought me here from Denerim, offered me the run of this place, can you imagine? Im glad to be here. The inquisition does good work. You do good work, Herald. Thank you.”  
“I…you are welcome” Etain managed with an awkward smile.   
She turned from the bar before the girl pressed on with her chatter. She wasn’t used to being thanked, it made her feel wholly uncomfortable. Flissa certainly had an interesting perspective on her part in this cause, and she was unsure as to whether she liked it or not.   
Varric had ferreted out a decent seat in the corner, and she passed a drink across to him and sat down, keeping her head low to the table. Across the Tavern she spotted Iron Bull, with a busty red-haired girl on his lap, holding a mug to his lips and giggling at something he was boasting of. He had settled in quickly it appeared, and a group of soldiers turned their seats towards him and seemed to be listening intently to his tale.   
“You really don’t do this much, do you?” Varric said observantly, noting her wariness with sympathetic eyes.   
She shook her head. The dwarf nudged her mug closer to her hand. “You know, I knew a Dalish girl once.” He said gently. “She’d never known anything outside her clan. Ended up in the Dusktown alienage, always seemed to get lost. Had to give her a ball of twine just so she could find her way home.”  
“Who was she?” Etain asked, her ears pricking up with interest.   
“I called her Daisy. She was a sweet thing, maybe a little absent-minded at times, but she was sharp when she wanted to be” he continued, pleased that he’d caught her interest. “Always saw the best in people, too. Even when shit got bad, she’d always find some reason to stay hopeful. And after a while, she didn’t seem quite as lost. Found her feet, when she started trusting people.”  
Whoever it was that he described, she didn’t sound like anyone Etain knew, but that wasn’t the point of the story. “I trust there’s a reason im still alive” she whispered, thumbing at the mug absently. “I trust that there’s something to be gained for me and for them.”  
“Always is” he agreed. “But that’s not such a bad thing. People aren’t so much afraid of you anymore. Well shit, you’ve got them doubting their convictions left right and centre.”  
He sighed, leaning forward enough to keep out of earshot of any nearby patrons. “Look, I’m not saying you’ve got to put your faith in everyone you see. A smart person chooses their friends carefully, and you’ve got a good set of people on your side. Trust them, they’ll trust you.”  
“do you trust me?”   
He gave her a grin, “I’m an anomaly, and you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. I can appreciate that. In other words; yes, I trust you, girly.”  
Etain felt oddly glad of that. Varric had something truly genuine about him. He was far from an innocent sort, and was more than a little comfortable with some of the more shady aspects of everyday life in this world, but he was honest about it, and his heart seemed as good as his cunning mind. “You have a way with words, Varric.”  
“I should hope so” he said with a chuckle. “Otherwise my books would be pretty poor sellers.”  
“You’re a writer?”  
Varric raised his mug and gave a hearty nod. “that’s right. Varric Tethras’ author extraordinaire, at your service.”  
“what kind of stories do you write?” she asked, more eagerly than she had intended to sound.   
The dwarf told her a great deal of his adventurous life, of the things he had seen and the history he had been a part of. His story telling abilities made it extremely difficult to discern truth from lie, but she still found herself engrossed with every word of it. He had a natural flourish that seemed to make the noisy world around them grow distant and quiet. She had been raised on the stories the elders told, of the ancient struggle of the Elvhen, and of the roots of the history, but Varric’s stories had such a foreign appeal filled with intrigue and excitement. When he spoke of his travels with the Champion of Kirkwall, there was a true and vivid admiration in every word. Those were the most exiting tales of all.   
By the time he was done, a dozen drinks had arrived and a dozen mugs had been emptied throughout the course of the conversation, and Etain felt a little more at ease. “So you met Cassandra in Kirkwall?” she asked, twirling her finger around the small splash of ale in the base of her mug.   
“ “Met” is an understatement. The woman dragged me into a cell and interrogated me for hours.” He scoffed. “but yes, that’s where we first crossed paths. Same with the Nightingale I guess. Oh, and curly.”  
““Curly”?”  
“Cullen” he clarified. “you know, because of the…hmm, well it worked better when his hair was short. Guess I should start calling him “wavy” now.”  
“Ah” was all she said, hoping to move on from the new topic of conversation swiftly.   
Varric peered at her suspiciously for a moment. “So, tensions still high there I take it.”  
She nodded, but offered no more, although she could have spoken at length about her disdain for the Templar’s ignorance, or how the sound of his militaristic proclamations at the war table grated so thoroughly on her nerves.   
Varric shrugged and swirled his ale in a contemplative manner. “He’s not the worst you know” he stated plainly, though his brow arched at her disbelieving expression. “okay, okay, so he’s a bit of an ass sometimes. Hawke didn’t like him much either, what with being an apostate and all. He’s just a little by-the-books at times, used to a certain ideal of order I guess. Couldn’t blame him for that though. Being under the thumb of someone like Knight-Commander Meredith doesn’t allow for much else.”  
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked, though the answer was clear.  
“Because sadly we all need to get along” he sighed dramatically. “otherwise it doesn’t really sell the image of a structured, professional cause, now does it?”  
As though sensing the turn of the conversation, the Tavern door swung open and the Commander strode in from the cold, clasping his snow-covered fur mantle tightly beneath his chin. His men ceased their ribaldry when they caught sight of him, the more skittish ones stumbling to their feet and saluting, where the more confident ones merely raised their mugs and called out a loud greeting. The snow that had settled in his neat golden hair melted quickly when he passed the fire. When he shook the moisture from his head, the meticulously back-combed locks flattened against his brow, and for a moment Etain could see why Varric called him Curly, until he swept them back into place and disappeared in the crowd.  
Etain sighed, pushing her mug to the middle of the table. As much as she hated to admit it, the ex-templar didn’t seem as bad as his brethren. Yet he was entirely foreign to her, as much as she likely was to him. As often as she had faced off against his kind, as often as the clan had dealt with their ire, their world was one she knew very little of.

One who’s secrets were hidden from the Dalish…  
Realization dawned on her so suddenly that she felt a thrum of renewed energy chase away the tiredness of her long trip. He was talkative, and didn’t seem too careful about speaking of his order. 

Perhaps she could return to her clan with more than the news of the breach’s closing, if she was careful.

“I think you might be right, Varric” she said with the smallest of smirks. “Perhaps I should try to be more accommodating.”

Varric gave her a careful look, his eyes flicking across the room for a moment, as though he had been following her quiet train of thought. “Smart thinking, you could learn a lot about the other side of life while you’re out saving the world.”

“You might be right” she smiled cryptically, and pushed back her seat. “thank you for the drinks Varric, and the stories.”

“Any time, girly.” 

She left him then, and ambled through the busy tavern until she was out in the open again, breathing in the cool night air. Tomorrow would be a new day, and perhaps where she had failed at the conclave, she might excel here in Haven, by bringing back vital information to her people, inadvertently given by a talkative former Templar if she was lucky. 

The prospect was good, she knew that, but she felt a tight nervousness coiling in her stomach when she thought more on it. She would hunt tonight, and chase away that feeling before dawn came, even if the only game was nug or fennec.


	32. A Templars Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and the Herald discuss the Templar Order. 
> 
>  
> 
> NOTE: Sorry for the lack of updates folks! I've been moving house and sadly had little time to sit down and write over the last month between work and box hauling. Should be able to post a little more regularly now that the chaos is over with :)

The war council convened to discuss the situationin the Storm Coast. The scouting party that was assigned to the area had encountered hostility during their mission, resulting in the loss of seven good men. Ambassador Montilyet thankfully made sure that funds were available to compensate the families of the dead. It was an unfortunate affair, and Cullen took the blame upon himself. He had not anticipated any resistance so far out from the conflicted zones in Ferelden, and the footsoldiers he had assigned to the area were not prepared for a calculated assault. He would personally see to the matter of informing the families of the lost soldiers.   
Despite the initial difficulties faced while establishing a foothold on the coastline, there was at least some good news yielded from the situation. The arrival of the Bull’s Chargers was a remarkable bolster for the ranks, and the Iron Bull was certainly a fierce leader for his small but efficient group. Although he was worried about the involvement of the Ben-Hasrath in the Inquisitions affairs, Bull was perfectly honest about the gains for both the Qunari and their cause. Lelliana was glad of their new allegiance, though she was wise enough to tread carefully when it came to Qunari affairs. At any rate, he was happy to assist with the training of the troops, and they responded to his methods surprisingly well, though he suspected it was partially out of fear. The Grey Warden Blackwall had arrived just before the chargers, both recruited by the Herald, who was thankfully wise enough to recognize an asset when she saw one it seemed. Blackwall was a stoic man with a good heart, and his skills of leadership were immensely valuable alongside Bull’s methods. His soldiers would have a greater variation of tactics, and it left him with more time to deal with other matters. His workload seemed to double with every passing day, but he was used to it by now. His duties in Kirkwall often bordered on nightmarish even in the quieter times.   
As well as the new additions to Haven, he had a new unit to manage thanks to the Herald. Upon her return to the village, Varric earned a share of sovereigns from the tavern patrons for his dramatic retelling of the events in the Storm Coast; where the Herald of Andraste faced off against the tyrannical leader of the Blades of Hessarian in the fighting pit, defeating him gloriously and earning the allegiance of the reclusive worshippers. Varric had a natural talent for spinning tales of glory and heroism, but it was pointless to question where the truth lay in his stories.  
Cullen had heard of the blades, who called themselves a holy order, modeled on the principles of the legendary blade of mercy that ended the suffering of Andraste when the Imperium burned her at the stake. They were not officially recognized by the chantry, and lived far outside the chantries reach, and outside the laws of the land. Though they considered themselves to be men of peace, they had grown lawless in seclusion, and increasingly problematic to those who travelled the coast. When the Herald came to the war table upon her return, she tore the Mercy’s crest from around her neck and informed him of his new charge as though it were a matter of little significance. Whatever disagreements he may have had with her methods, he could not fault her for her speed and efficiency with the matters dealt to her.   
When the meeting concluded, Josephine and Lelliana left swiftly to deal with their tasks, leaving him to pack away the unused markers and file away the finalized reports. Yet he was greatly surprised to see that the Herald had stayed behind, for once. She remained stooped over the expanse of the map of Thedas, eyeing the markers with interest and a look of confusion.   
“Is there…something you needed, Herald Lavellan?” he asked tentatively, wondering why she had not darted out of the room with her usual swiftness.  
She glanced up at him and stared at him for a thoughtful moment before her gaze fell upon the map once more. “It occurs to me that I have little to no understanding of the significance of any of this” she sighed irritably, waving her hand over the map. “Allies and footholds, certainly not something I’ve ever had to worry over”  
“It could easily be argued that you don’t have to concern yourself over it now, to an extent” he remarked with a wry grin. “unless you had a mind to, that is”  
“I do have a mind to” she said earnestly, standing upright and regarding him with a serious look. “at least for more important matters, namely the dispute over the mage and Templar hostilities. Cassandra says I must have some input into the decision, though Creators know I hardly wish it to be so.”  
“Ah, I see. Well, if there’s anything in particular you need to know, I’d be glad to assist?” he offered.  
“Truly?” she said with a hopeful smile. “I…would greatly appreciate that, Commander. There was one thing in particular I wished to ask you about personally, if you do not have more pressing matters to attend of course.”  
In truth, he had a dozen things to see to, but between the Herald’s sudden interest in the Inquisition’s internal affairs, and her unusually pleasant tone, he was more than glad to compromise. Perhaps she was growing accustomed to the weight of the title, and finally beginning to place a firmer trust in others, in him.   
“I have to do a few routine checks around the perimeter, but if you’d like to join me, I can answer any questions you might have.”  
She considered the offer for a moment, her eyes lowered to the ground, before flashing up again with an enthusiastic nod. “Ma Serannas, Commander” she said softly. “I would be very glad of it.”

The Herald Continued to surprise him with her eagerness for knowledge as they walked the barricades together. She stayed a few paces behind him, and only spoke when a question came to mind, but the gentle tinkling of the little bell she wore in her braid filled the silence. Although the duties of the day were not the most lively nor interesting, she seemed quite intrigued by the process.   
“you are fortifying the walls?” she inquired meekly, running a hand absently over the stack of wooden pallets that had been delivered earlier that day.   
“Not today. These supplies are for something much more lucrative” he beamed proudly, more than pleased to speak of the Inquisition’s acquisition. “It took quite a bit of convincing, but the rest of the war council agreed it was time to outfit our forces with siege weapons for our future campaigns.”  
“Siege weapons?” she looked up at him innocently.   
“Ah, you’re people don’t have siege machinery, do they?” he realized belatedly, and she shook her head in response. “They’re generally used for demolition purposes, such as destroying walls.”  
“Weapons of war” she muttered. “why would you build them here?”  
“With our forces still growing, they’ll be used for defensive purposes, and be deployed when needed.”  
“You presume there will be need of them” she remarked pointedly.   
“We must be prepared” he stated assuredly. “We cannot know what lies ahead.”  
The Herald nodded, kicking at the snow beneath her feet distractedly, evading his gaze. She suddenly looked rather shy, or as shy as a woman with her kind of dangerous reputation could be. It was a strange look on her. “you favour an allegiance with the Templars, Commander” she said flatly. “you are a Templar, is that why? Because they are your brethren?”  
“I had my reasons for leaving the order” he reminded her, for what seemed like the tenth time. “I do not recommend them on a biased principle, they have their faults. But I know a great deal of what they can do, and where their skills lie.”  
Her discomfort at the idea of it was understandable. History hardly made for a good friendship between the Order and the Dalish people, but that she did not appear to be greatly opposed to it, at least not in an outspoken sense, was a remarkably hopeful sign of change. Perhaps he could persuade her of the virtues of such an alliance. “If you’re looking for any information on the current activity of the Order, I’m afraid I know very little. Anything else, however, I will answer as best I can.”  
She brightened at that, and they found a quieter spot away from the workers where they could speak more privately. Most of the civilian workers were pulling wood from the delivery point at the front gate, and the firepit below the tavern was empty for a change. The Herald sat on the bench opposite to him, flexing her fingers above the flickering flames, reflected in her large, almond-shaped eyes. “Why did you join the Templars?” she asked quietly after a time.  
“I could think of no better calling than to protect those in need” he recalled the memory fondly, of a time when he new no better, and a singular prospect was always on his mind, to the point of obsession. “I used to beg the local Templars at our chantry to teach me. At first, they merely humoured me, but I must have shown promise, or at least a willingness to learn. The knight-commander spoke to my parents on my behalf. They agreed to send me for training. I was thirteen when I left home.”  
Her head jerked up, and she regarded him with a look of bafflement. “Thirteen?” she exclaimed confusedly. “ that’s very…”  
“Yes, some might consider it to be young, but I was hardly the youngest there. Some children are promised to the Order at infancy.” He sighed. “Still, I didn’t take on full responsibilities until I was eighteen, as per the rules of the Order. They see you trained and educated first.”  
“I…was going to say old, actually” she said flatly, as it if the thought were absolutely absurd.   
“How is…I mean thirteen is…”his mouth opened and shut more than once as he gaped at her dismissal with bafflement. “Well, when did you start training?!”  
She blinked, scrunching her eyes at him for a moment. “not thirteen, that is certain. Too many wasted years to start at thirteen. What about your family?”  
Cullen lowered his eyes. He had neglected to think of his family as often as he should have. He was not proud of it, though he tried his best to make sure he knew they were safe, and that at least lessened the burden of guilt.  
“It was difficult to leave them. I missed them terribly at first, but there were many my age who felt the same. We learned to look out for each other”  
She shifted back in her seat, and drew her knees up to rest her cheek upon them. She looked immensely tired, as though a lack of sleep were catching up to her all at once. He could tell she was thinking upon her own situation, and he almost sorry for her. As difficult a decision as it had been for him, it was still his decision to make. Her place with the Inquisition was not entirely of her choosing, that much was abundantly clear. As though she sensed his appraisal of her demeanor, she swiftly moved on. She had many questions about the Templar order, about their military organization, their weapon training, their laws of conduct and others of the same ilk, and he informed to the best of his experience. He was unused to outsiders asking such in-depth questions, as most simply took the Templars as they saw them. The Herald phrased every question in such a tactful and aptly worded manner that he wondered if she had more experience of military history than she suggested. She showed great interest in the Orders weapon training above anything, though she voiced no opinion of it. She also enquired about his own time as a Templar, and upon such questions he struggled to answer. Thankfully, she did not ask much of his post in Ferelden. He spoke plainly of his time in training, and the more routine of occasions in the average day of duty, and even found it within himself to crack wise about the events in Kirkwall, which even seemed to surprise her. He knew he’d earned a reputation as a man who rarely smiled, a decent trait for a commander in charge of reckless young soldiers, but much less for selling a personable image to others. Not that he wished to do so a great deal, but he felt obligated to offer some assurance that he was not quite so much the ignorant bastard he’d made himself out to be in prior encounters with the Dalish elf, and he was humble enough to admit to himself that he certainly wished to avoid being caught off guard and stunned like a rabbit again. His neck still hurt when he moved too quickly.   
“You take a draught of Lyrium when you take up official rank, and from then on it is taken regularly.” The Herald clarified again, making sure she had heard the details correctly. “what happens if blooded Templars are cut off from their supply of Lyrium?”  
A chill ran up his spine that he knew was nothing to do with the dropping temperature in Haven. “I…I don’t quite know” he said coldly. “The effects of Lyrium are…somewhat unpredictable”  
“it is unnatural” she muttered against her knees. “Lyrium should not be used in such excess, it is a dangerous game.”  
“Mages use it more often than Templars” he said defensively, though why he was defending it he wasn’t sure. ”surely your keepers use it frequently?”  
Her brow quirked. “rarely” she said dismissively, and said no more on the subject.   
Cullen wondered at how little she spoke of her kin. Perhaps she feared what little information she spoke of to outsiders might put her people in jeopardy, even if he had no intention of sharing it. Still, he was growing more interested in the secrets she kept about the world that was such a contrast from his own. He’d seen the Lavellan outriders galloping with heads held high, utterly fearless and proud, and he found himself greatly interested in the training that must have given them such a wild, yet disciplined demeanor. Perhaps, given time, she might be open to speaking of it, but he sensed that now was not the time.   
“Must all Templars take vows once they are blooded?” she asked, peering at him curiously. Night was setting in, and when she turned her head away from the firelight, her eyes took on a soft violet glow that softened her tired features. “To protect the chantry and watch over mages?”  
Maker, if the questions were not resembling a knowledge test already, it was certainly starting to. Nonetheless, he did his best to explain the process of earning a knighthood. “As Templars, we are not to seek wealth or acknowledgement. Our Lives belong to the Maker, and the path we have chosen. “A life of service and sacrifice” She summarized. “Are Templars also expected to give up physical temptations?”  
“Physical?! Why…why would you…” He cleared his throat, suddenly desperate to convince himself that the heat rushing to his cheeks was caused by the dwindling hearth. “Er…that’s not expected. Templars can marry, a-although there are rules around it, and the Order must grant permission….Some may choose to give up more but its, um, not required.”  
She said bolt upright at that, and gave him the most bewildered of looks, her head tilted to one side. “You do not, ah, what is the word?” She hissed with frustration, flapping her hand as she struggled to find an appropriate translation, making him realize for the first time that the common tongue may not have been her first language. “Have sex? Make love?”  
All at once, it felt as though he had regressed to his younger self, back to the years when the young female residents of the circle tower would tease him relentlessly for blushing when they walked past. He had been young, and half in love with any pretty girl that showed him attention, or at least that was how it seemed. Kinloch hold had a reputation for promiscuous behavior amongst the mages, and younger recruits were easy pawns to the more deviant of charges. The Knight-Commander was watchful enough to prevent any sort of scandal from unfolding, for such a breach of decorum would have shamed them all.   
“I…me? Um…no? I’ve taken no such vows” He stammered, cursing the boyish waver and pitch in his tone. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Maker, can we…speak of something else?”

Why would she ask such a thing? What could that possible have to do with the merits of the Templar order? Why was he so quick to tell her that?

Was she…flirting?

He risked a glance at her again, and found that she seemed completely unfazed, though perhaps a little confused by her reaction. Her question was completely earnest, and her reaction was purely innocent. Perhaps it was not such a strange thing to ask someone such a frankly worded, personal question in her culture. 

“I…see. That is….good for you?” she said awkwardly, gawking at him as though he were the strangest creature she’d ever come across. “I…think that is all I need to know.”

“Oh…good” He said, wishing the ground beneath him would open up and swallow him whole. At least then he would have a speedy exit that would not add to the sheer awkwardness that was already pouring out of him like a waterfall. “Well, I should….reports and…things”

She nodded, silently rising to her feet. “thank you for the information commander” She said brusquely, and strangely, her demeanor switched instantly back to her usual self, straight-backed and calm. “it has been…enlightening.”

Cullen offered a quick nod of his head, abruptly leaving the fireside and making for his cabin as swiftly as possible. Once the door was shut, he breathed a heavy sigh, and immediately seated himself at his desk and sorted through the reports to be brought to the war council the following morning. 

It was several hours before he finally grew tired enough to make an attempt at sleep. He lay awake for some time in darkness, staring at the dusty roof panels until his eyes grew heavy.

That night, no demons haunted his dreams, only eyes of amethyst that peered through darkness, and the gentle tinkling of a silver bell.


	33. The Road to Redcliffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Etain and her companions return to the Hinterlands to seek out the rebel mages.

The decision was made.

The Nightingale approved of the choice. Ambassador Montiylet made little attempt to hide her support for the rebels. Cassandra was ambiguous and showed the signs of disappointment, but supported the decision nonetheless. 

Commander Cullen was wordless and red-faced in his anger. It might have seemed more amusing, if she were the sort to take amusement at such things. With the support of the war council, his argument would have counted for naught at any rate.

Etain was careful to approach the subject with caution. As far as anyone was concerned, nothing was set in stone. She would enter Redcliffe merely to speak with the assembled mages and listen to their reasoning. No one could dispute a simple action of diplomacy at a time of war, and the first enchanter had sought her out to extend the hand of friendship. Ambassador Montilyet had already done her research on the whereabouts and activity of the Templars, and it would have been no easy task even to seek an audience with their leaders. It was something to be considered, watched from the sidelines, while they investigated the oppositions prospects. It was deemed a fair alternative, but the Commander was rapidly growing suspicious, especially after their conversation the night before.  
Most of his information was unhelpful, or merely speculative, though snippets of information about their military organization and initiation would prove immensely useful to the clan’s warriors. It did nothing to improve her opinion of him, either. His intricately designed helm and mantle grated on her nerves more than usual. Lions were rare creatures to see in the northlands, but closer to Antiva they were found in greater numbers, and she had seen them traversing the scorched sands with their pride in tow. She supposed the visage represented strength and courage, perhaps loyalty or leadership given his status. But lions were unrivaled predators with great ferocity and wildness. Cullen possessed neither trait. He had the ferocity of a milk-toothed pup, and barely a thought beyond what the chantry and the Order had hammered into him. If he was a lion, it could only be a lion that had never known the call of the wild. A glorified housecat who barely knew the reason it had claws. Yet still she could not swallow the anxiousness that pooled in her belly like bile when he was nearby, the bitter taste of remembered fear that the flaming swords etched into his gauntlets wrenched up instilled in her. She cursed him and his ilk even harder for that. 

Her armour was in growing need of repair. The soft doeskin beneath the boiled leather lamellar plates was starting to come apart and would need replacing soon. She had temporarily stitched the worst of it, though it would not hold together for long. It was basic ranger armour, designed for long expeditions and hunting. The thick plating was woven into the vital areas; stomach, waist, shoulders and thighs. Though it added bulk, it was very light. She had intended on venturing deeper into the forest in search of ironbark to trade with Aturan, the woodsmith of the clan, in exchange for a solid gorget and pauldrons. It was tradition for all Lavellan outriders to carry both a set of light and heavy armour, though in truth there was little difference in the weight between them, it was tradition nonetheless. Her father rarely donned either, but always kept his ranger's garb locked in his chest, and his warriors armour, passed down and reforged from his own father, was ever present on the armour stand in his tent, an angry demon of black and silver, waiting for the day it would be needed again. 

With no gold of her own she could not simply purchase the supplies she needed, and the shems in Haven did not trade in goods. She was too proud to use her begrudged title for the sake of garnering leather needles and oils. She would have to improvise, or find someone who might be willing to trade the items for the meat and small pelts she had acquired, or perhaps some elfroot salves. Her small cabin was starting to smell more like her usual dwelling, with a mixed scent of cured hides and herbs. 

She found Solas leaning against the apothecary’s cabin on the east end of the village, gazing across the frozen lake beyond the gates. He gave her a soft smile when she approached. “You’ve taken to favouring the mages struggle” he said evenly. “It may not be seen as the wisest course of action by some if not most, though commendable in its own right”  
“I have no appetite for politics in any form” she replied. “The mages at least extended the offer of allegiance. The alternative was less desirable. I did not wish to hold such a responsibility, but the Inquisition sees it differently.”  
He shook his head and smiled again. “Heroes rarely wish for such a mantle to be thrust upon their shoulders, at least not in the beginning.”  
“I am no hero” she retorted with a snort of disdain. “I am anything but.”  
He turned to her, his eyes bearing deeply into hers. “Perhaps a romanticized title, worthy of legend rather than fact, but every war has its heroes. I simply wonder what kind you will be.”  
“The kind who will fade into obscurity once their task is complete, if luck is with me” she muttered.  
“A pragmatic response, and perhaps a wise one” he said, and his face grew serious. “I will stay then, at least until the breach has been closed.”  
“Was that in doubt?”  
“I am an apostate mage surrounded by chantry forces and unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.”  
“All too well” she conceded. She was grateful to know she was not the only one who erred on the side of caution in this place, even if she were protected by a false divinity. She felt less alone with Solas nearby, and although he was not raised a Dalish, she could scarcely see him as less than one of the elvhen. During her time in Haven, on the occasions when war room planning seemed to halt productive action, she often sought him out for both council and companionship. More than anything, she was grateful to speak with someone in her own tongue for a while, even if it earned a suspicious glance from passersby. He had a way about him that was familiar to her, and it comforted her as much as it roused her curiosity. He walked amongst the shemlen with ease and comfort, even when so many looked on with disapproval and wariness. If he feared the persecution of the chantry, he hid it well.  
“You came to this place to help, by choice” she said softly. “I will not let them use that against you.”  
He took a step closer, appraising her with his dark eyes. The scent of pine needles and sweetbark filled her nostrils. “How would you stop them?”  
“However I had to” she breathed, realizing belatedly how close they were standing to one another.  
A long moment of silence hung in the air, before at last he raised a brow, as though surprised by her response, and smiled gently. “Thank you”  
She took a step back from him. Her skin was warm, but she shivered nonetheless. Solas turned his attention to the breach in the sky. “For now, let us hope that either the mages or the Templars have the power to seal the breach.”

 

The Hinterlands had settled a great deal with the widespread influence of the Inquisition forces. Templar forces withdrew to the further regions to regroup in their established base camps, watched by the scouts for any sign of retaliation. The mages ventured further inland, towards the gates of Redcliffe, which was rapidly becoming a refuge for the rebel cause. The land was still scarred by conflict, but the town militia had commenced repairs and deployed men to find food and supplies for the locals in need since the fighting had come to a halt.  
The Seeker questioned every scout they came across on the path about the situation, and impressed upon them the need for vigilance. She was more than sure that the Templars would soon seek to press an attack on the region, once they had had time to lick their wounds and resupply themselves. It would have been a foolish move indeed, but the dogs of the chantry had turned lawless and foolhardy in the absence of leadership. 

They took the southern path to Redcliffe village, at the recommendation of the Inquisition scout posted on the trail, assured that it would be the quickest route with the least trouble. Asfaloth grunted impatiently at the slow pace set by the constant stops for every soldier and villager that had news to impart along their way, and Etain gave him an empathetic pat. Her companions traveled on horseback, save for the Iron Bull, who kept an easy pace with the rest of them on foot. Idle chatter filled the silent intervals, but Etain was barely listening. Even though the worst of the fighting had dissipated, small clusters of injured militia and mages, even Templars, those who had clearly thought better of their decisions and fled back to the arms of the chantry, where the sisters oversaw repentant prayers of forgiveness from young men on their knees in the dirt of the worn road, ragged and weary as they were from war. The injured looked up as they passed by, huddled together for warmth, while the healers did their work. It was easy to see that supplies were running low in the area. The locals looked frailer and gaunter than before, and sorely in need of a hot meal. 

The great walls of Redcliffe soon came into view, and already it became clear that the task of entering the town would prove difficult. The portcullis was already drawn down, and before it loomed a rift, crackling and hungry. The guardsmen were on the other side at a safe distance, save for a single soldier who was surveying the rift from the ridge above the path. “I want a constant watch on that damn thing!” the guardsmen shouted to the men behind the gates “sound the alarm at the first sign of demons!”  
The woman turned on her heels and ran in the opposite direction, and momentarily halted at the sight of them. “turn back” she barked roughly. “we cant open the gates until the rift is gone!”  
Before anyone could offer an answer, the woman was gone, likely to warn the refugees and injured further back on the path. The rift hummed, loud as a hive of aggravated wasps, and everyone knew what was about to happen. Sure enough, the hum became a thunderous crack, and the ravenous creatures within pushed their way through the gate and into their world. Etain quickly launched herself from the saddle and commanded Asfaloth to retreat further back from the path. Terror demons shot out from the ground as fast as lightning, their tendrils whipping about ferociously. She would not risk her hart taking a blow to the legs amidst a fight this big, and he was a prime target for a fast strike from the long-limbed monstrosities. The Bull charged, the Seeker not far behind, carving a path to the rift. Much practice on the field had given their small retinue a fine set of effective tactics, and while her heavy-hitting companions pushed back the minor demons surrounding the rift, she slashed and hacked at the legs of the terror demons and ran between them as streams of energy returned to the epicenter and made the humming other-world crystals churn and crunch against one another. It was not as remarkable a thing to her any longer, after so many encounters with the minor rift tears, but when she let the mark do the work, this time it was different. Time slowed. Every movement, breath and thought staggered and halted at the moment the mark reached out and touched the rift, as did the demons that desperately tried to crawl up from the ground. Etain willed her limbs to speed up, to break through. It felt as though she was wading up river below the rapid flow of a waterfall. Around her, her companions’ faces were slowly twisting into expressions of confusion and shock. Before the effect truly set in, life sped up to its usual pace so suddenly that everyone and everything caught up in that single moment lurched forward and stumbled as they regained their mind. The battle resumed and the demons fell back until at last the mark sealed the rift and left nothing but a pool of sickly ichor on the ground beneath it.  
“Elgar’nan!” she exclaimed, flexing her fingers to ensure that it had truly worn off.  
Lady Vivienne, dressed in her finest garb and standing out a great deal with her extravagance, gently nudged the edge of the black pool with one immaculately white boot. “Strange, none of my reports indicated any temporal distortions near these rifts. Interesting. “  
The situation was not something Etain would describe as interesting. She had cleared through a substantial share of rifts already, but this one was unique, and worrying. With a contingency of mages on the other side of the gate, it was even more worrying. Instinct told her that there was more to this matter than they had thought, and she was now much more eager to speak with the First Enchanter, and discover the reason for the renegade mages interest in the Inquisition.


	34. The Mage Mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Etain and her companions uncover a mysterious turn of events surrounding the mages of Redcliffe.

The time-altered rift outside the gates of Redcliffe was only the beginning of the mystery.   
The young scout looked up at her from beneath his hood, flustered by the situation he was painstakingly trying to explain. “We’ve spread word that the inquisition was coming, but you should know that no one here was expecting us”  
“No one?” Etain repeated. “Not even Grand Enchanter Fiona?”  
“If she was, she hasn’t told anyone” he clarified warily. ”We’ve arranged the use of the tavern for the negotiations.”  
A young mage rounded the path and came before them with a breathless, apologetic bow. “Agents of the Inquisition, my apologies! Magister Alexius is in charge now, but hasn’t yet arrived. He’s expected shortly. You can speak to the former grand enchanter in the meantime”  
The young elf gestured for them to follow. Etain withdrew to Cassandra’s side. “Magister is not a rank of circle mages” she said quietly, and the Seeker nodded. “a title of the Imperium”  
“You are correct, though this was not expected.” Cassandra remarked suspiciously. “The Tevinter Imperium has surprisingly kept its distance from the rebellion until now. Why this sudden interest in the war?”  
“The Grand Enchanter did not mention this”  
“Something is not right here” the Seeker surmised, as the young mage ushered them into the tavern.   
The windows had been barred, much the same as the other buildings in the area, and the small space was lit only by candelight. There were a number of mages present, their robes frayed and torn from travel and strife, looking hardly any better than the locals, who seemed equally dismayed by their presence. Numerous reports suggested that the sudden influx of mages was not approved of by either the ruling nobility nor the town’s citizens. Where the rebels settled, there would never be a sense of ease for those around them.   
Grand Enchanter Fiona, dressed in less impressive vestments than those she had worn in Orlais, rose from her seat to greet them. “Welcome, Agents of the Inquisition” she said hesitantly. “What has brought you to Redcliffe?”  
Etain blinked, furrowing her brow in matched confusion. “We spoke in Val Royeaux” she reminded her. “you yourself requested our presence for a negotiation”  
She narrowed her eyes at the older woman, searching for any signs of deception, but there were none. Fiona appeared to be just as baffled as she was.   
“You must be mistaken. I have not been to Val Royeaux since before the conclave”   
“It was you” Etain pushed insistently. “I would not forget a face. Everything about you was the same.”  
The Grand Enchanter touched her own temples gingerly, as though willing away a sudden headache. “I don’t…now that you say it, I feel strange...” she shut her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, she regarded her with a cold look. “Whoever…or whatever brought you here, the situation has changed. The free mages have already pledged themselves to the Tevinter Imperium”  
Her words struck Etain with such a suddenness that she very nearly recoiled from the woman in shock. “Fenhedis lasa!” she exclaimed in a low hiss. “What madness would drive you to such a decision?”  
“An allegiance with the Tevinter Imperium” Cassandra gasped. “Do you not fear all of Thedas turning against you?!”  
Beside her, Solas wore a look that was far from his usual, serene repose. “I understand your fear, but you deserve better than slavery to Tevinter.”  
Etain turned her head away from her, awestruck by the foolishness of such a decision. No elf in Thedas lived without the knowledge of the Imperium’s barbarisms. A people who still existed with a legal slave trade, they were reviled by most every nation. The Dalish had long since cursed them for their atrocities, for it was they who first chained their people and desecrated their ancient ways. Every clan, from the wildest to the most diplomatic, spared no kindness towards the magisters that skulked the land in search of fresh slaves for their market. Even Keeper Deshanna spared them no goodwill. Now an elf stood before her, resigned to a foolish contract with the jailors of the free people. It took immense control to stop herself from spitting at her feet and calling her a race-traitor.   
Fiona lowered her eyes to the floor, ignoring the chastisement of her companions. “As one indentured to a magister, I no longer have the authority to negotiate with you.”  
“Spoken like a slave, as if your new masters have already bound you in chains” Etain growled. “Will you also ignore the breach that threatens to engulf the sky above and destroy us all?”  
“I am not forgetting the breach” she responded curtly. “but we can only fight one war at a time. The Templars threat was immediate. If we live, we can worry about the torn veil”  
The door swung open behind them, momentarily illuminating the dull gloom of the tavern as two men stepped inside. It was immediately apparent who they were. “Welcome, my friends!” the first man said, clapping his hands together with a wry grin on his face. “I apologize for not greeting you sooner.”  
Etain’s nostrils flared indignantly at the magister’s presumptuous repose. He wore the flamboyant and foreign garb of a wealthy individual, dripping with a natural smugness. Grand Enchanter Fiona lowered her head like a dog avoiding a clout from a heavy-handed master. “Agents of the Inquisition, allow me to introduce Magister Gereon Alexius”  
“The Southern mages are under my command” He said, surveying his charges like a king might survey his conquered lands. He turned his attention to her, and his sickeningly pleasant smile grew wider. “You are the survivor, yes? The one from the fade? Interesting.”  
As difficult as it was, Etain managed a dry smile. “If you are leading the mages now” She glanced momentarily at Fiona, who wore an unmistakeable look of guilt. “Then let us speak. I am sure we can come to some arrangement.”  
Alexius raised a brow, appraising her words for a moment. He looked at her as though she were beneath him, and made it painstakingly obvious that that was his true belief. “Well, it is always a pleasure to meet a reasonable woman.”  
He gestured towards an empty table, and she seated herself across from him. The mages in the tavern did not look upon the Magister with any loyalty in their eyes. Most looked distrusting, even fearful. Fiona shrunk back to join them, but none regarded her with any attention. Alexius waved a hand at his companion, and the young, frail looking man came forward. “Felix, would you send for a scribe, please? Pardon my manners, My son Felix, friends.”  
Felix bowed graciously, and silently left to attend his task. Alexius turned his attention back to her then. “I am not surprised you’re here. Containing the breach is not a feat many could even attempt. There is no telling how many mages would be needed for such an endeavor. Ambitious, indeed.”  
Perhaps I ought to speak with the ambassador, and see how many of your slaves the Inquisition can afford, she thought ruefully. Behind her, she could hear the rapping of Cassandra’s heel against the floor, and knew without looking that the situation was making her vastly uncomfortable in its growing, suspect nature.   
“You are of a mind to lend us the aid of your mages?” she asked, as pleasantly as she possible could.   
The magister frowned indignantly and leaned forward. “There will have to be a-“  
His attention suddenly fell upon his son, who had returned unaccompanied, and very pale. Alexius’ haughty repose was quickly replaced with fatherly concern as he leapt from his seat, just as the boy lurched forward with a groan. Etain rose instinctively and reached him before the magister, extending an arm as his knees gave way. Felix thumped against her, trembling like a leaf, and she steadied him with both arms as his father looked him over concernedly. “My lady, I am so sorry. Please forgive me” he said feebly, grasping her hand tightly.   
“Felix, are you alright?” Alexius asked with heavy worry.   
The boy nodded, but kept a firm hold of her hand, and Etain did not make to move back from him when she realized why. “I am fine father”   
But the magister was already moving to leave. “Come, I’ll get your powders. Please excuse me, friends. We will have to continue this another time.”  
He reached for his son’s hand and quickly pulled him away, and Felix, looking much less feeble than he had just moments ago, offered her a determined nod before his father whisked him from the tavern, calling out to Fiona for assistance.   
“I shall send word to the Inquisition. We will conclude this business at a later date.”  
As soon as the tavern door was shut, Etain stepped back from the candlelight and the eyes of the other mages still clustered in the cramped room. She opened her fist, and there lay a small, crumpled piece of parchment. Instinctively her companions subtely shielded her from prying eyes as she unfurled it and read the message;

“Come to the chantry. You are in danger”


	35. Dorian of house Pavus, formally Minrathous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time magic and news of Tevinter cults brings the mages cause into question, and Solas learns a surprising secret about Herald Lavellan. 
> 
>  
> 
> Note: I've been on a writing spree for a few days now in an attempt to get what i can only describe as necessary filler out of the way. Sorry if theyre a little dull or uneventful, but interesting stuff lies ahead!
> 
> Will Etain ever learn to trust her companions?
> 
> Will anyone ever learn her real name?
> 
> Will she side with the mages? or will the convoluted mysteries and traps turn her to a less desirable ally?
> 
> Will Cullen ever understand the strange Dalish elf who communicates with almost total hostility? 
> 
>  
> 
> Stay tuned for more antics in the world of Thedas. 
> 
> Coming soon to an archive near you!

It did not take much to convince the others of the need to seek clarification on the matter. The situation which had previously seemed a simple enough task had quickly spun out of control. A time-altered rift, and now the rebel mages swearing themselves to the Imperium. Something sinister was transpiring in this place, even if others could not see it. Etain tucked the note that Felix had slipped her into her pocket. “It could be a trap, but either we investigate, or wait” she said to her companions.  
“it is worth further investigation, to be sure” Cassandra offered staunchly, and the others nodded in agreement.  
“Good” she said, swinging the tavern door open. “Waiting is not a viable option.”

The chantry was not a far stretch away, but they still had the chance to survey the area. Mages littered the streets, and chantry officials were out in high number to preach their sermons to the community. None of the mages dared approach them, as though they had taken a fear of upsetting their new masters by initiating any further talk of an alliance. A strange air hung over the town of Redcliffe, and all things here seemed fraught with mystery. Above anything, Etain felt greatly perplexed as to why the Magisters own son had gone out of his way to warn them of danger. 

The moment she pushed open the heavy doors of the chantry, she groaned internally at the familiar sound of demonic activity. Behind her, Cassandra let out a loud sigh of disgust and weapons were drawn. The Rift had evidently been torn open before there arrival, and a single defender fought back the heinous creatures that spilled from its mouth. “Good, youre here!” he called back without turning. “now, help me close this, would you?”  
Etain did not spare a moment to register the mage that hurled his spells at the encroaching demons. She ran straight past him and left the fighting to the others, raising her hand to the rift and willing it shut with utmost speed. The world slowed, and sped up with immense speed, with such sporadic movements making her stomach turn over on itself. It was happening again, just like the first one. Any demons remaining were sucked back through the portal, scrabbling for purchase on the stone floor, their claws desperately scraping a trail backwards before their struggle was quelled.  
The chantry hall fell into silence, and at last the mysterious mage turned to inspect his reinforcements. He was undoubtedly Tevinter, given his olive-coloured skin and unusual garb, though he was a fine contrast to Alexius. This one was impeccably well groomed in every way possible, and somehow managed to keep his almost all-white clothing entirely free of bloodstains during the scuffle. His jet-black hair was oiled and combed to perfection, and the unmistakable scent of musk oil hung in the air around him. Without so much as an introduction, he strode forward and sized her up. “Fascinating! How does that work exactly?” he asked, pointing to her hand, and laughing haughtily when she struggled to find an answer. “Brilliant! You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers and boom! Rift closes!”  
Etain, momentarily frazzled, stepped back from him and furrowed her brow. “Who are you?”  
“Ah, getting ahead of myself again, I see” he tutted, sweeping a very elegant bow. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”  
“Another Tevinter. Be careful with this one” Cassandra warned, crossing her arms and eyeing him with disdain.  
The mage simply smiled back cheerfully and tutted. “Suspicious friends you have here. Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my assistance should be valuable – as im sure you can imagine”  
“What could you possibly have to gain from betraying your own master?” she demanded, more forcefully than she might have intended, for she was quickly growing tired of the constant revelations of the day.  
Dorian of house Pavus, more recently Minrathous (the lengthy title falling on deaf ears to her), folded his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes. “Alexius was my master. Meaning he’s not any longer, not for some time. Look, you must know there is danger, even without the note. Lets start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the mages out from under you. As if by magic, yes? Which is exactly right. To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.”  
“Impossible” Etain retorted impatiently. “Such endeavors would violate the laws of magic.”  
“Oh, I didn’t realize you had such a refined understanding of magic” Dorian replied with much sarcasm. “A violation of the ethical standards of magic use, yes. Impossible, no.”  
“Fascinating if true, but most certainly dangerous” Solas mused, quite unfazed by the situation in the typical manner of a likeminded mage.  
“The rift you closed here? You saw how it twisted time around itself, sped some things up and slowed others down. Soon there will be more like it, and they’ll appear further and further away from Redcliffe. The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable, and it is unraveling the world.”  
“that is a lot to take on faith alone” She said, feeling vastly under qualified for this task all of a sudden. She knew of the natural magic of the Dalish, but little beyond it. This talk of time distortion sounded beyond unnatural.  
“I know what im talking about” Dorian said firmly. “I helped develop this magic. When I was still an apprentice, it was pure theory. Alexius could never get it to work. What I don’t understand is why he is doing it? Ripping holes in time simply to gain a few lackeys?”  
“He didn’t do it for them.”  
Etain turned to see Felix slipping discretely from a doorway in the east wing of the chantry. Dorian regarded him with a wry grin. “Took you long enough. Is he getting suspicious?”  
“No, but I shouldn’t have played the illness card. I thought he’d be fussing over me all day.” He said, his brow set with worry. “My father’s joined a cult. Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves “Venatori”. And I can tell you one thing” He turned to her. “whatever he’s done for them. He’s done it to get to you.”  
“Me?” it would have been foolish to ask for any specific reason why. The false divinity, the garnered notoriety of being cast into the light for all to see by the Inquisition, or perhaps simply because of the blood in her veins. The promises of Inquisition protection didn’t bring her comfort. Tevinter Magisters sounded bad enough, Tevinter cultists sounded despicable.  
“You know you’re his target now. Expecting his trap is the first step to turning it to your advantage” Dorian offered. “I cannot stay in Redcliffe. Alexius doesn’t know im here, and I want to keep it that way for now. But whenever you’re ready to face him, I want to be there.”  
He turned to leave through the same door Felix had entered from, patting the younger mage on the shoulder. “Felix, try not to get yourself killed”  
The boy shook his head. “There are worse things than dying, Dorian.”

With all that they had learned in Redcliffe, it was time to return to Haven to discuss the final plan of action. Cassandra remained silent on the journey, contemplating all that had been said and done, looking none too pleased with the situation. Etain was glad to be back in the saddle, though dread pooled in her belly as well as her mind. Solas reigned his horse alongside Asfaloth and looked her over with a frown. “Things were not quite so linear as we may have thought” he said, slipping casually into elven.  
“I should hardly be surprised. Nothing has even resembled normality since the conclave” she said grimly. “But time magic. It is unfathomable.”  
“Another aspect forbidden to even the most seasoned of mages, just as blood magic is. And just like blood magic, it was bound to work its way into practice eventually”  
she regarded him with a look of puzzlement. “Nothing seems to faze you, Solas. Do you not find blood magic an abhorrent practice?”  
His brow arched, but he kept his eyes firmly on the road ahead. “do you?”  
“All magic is dangerous in the hands of fools” she said.  
He smiled at that. “I underestimated you, lethalan. There is a wisdom in you that surpasses your years, I think. You are not all that you appear to be.”  
“I did not realize I appeared to be a fool” she said with a grin.  
“You appear to be a warrior, and a warrior is most commonly tempered with strength above wisdom.”  
“Does wisdom not come in many forms?”  
He gave her a look of approval. “Indeed, true strength is always tempered with a strong mind. Impressive swordsmanship and exceptional grace are merely enjoyable side benefits in the grand scale of things.”  
“You suggest that I am graceful?” she asked quietly, confused by the wording.  
“No” he said with a subtle grin, one she could only describe as predatorial. “I am declaring it. It was not a subject for debate.”  
She stared at him for a long moment, taken aback by the brazenness of his words. He continued to look down the path ahead as though he were not blatantly aware of her gaze, a playful grin still resting on his lips. “Brazen words” she muttered, tightening her grip on Asfaloth’s tawny mane.  
“Forgive me” he chuckled. “it occurs to me that I know little enough about you as it stands. You have a skill for keeping secrets. I do not even know your name”  
“What’s in a name?” She nudged Asfaloth’s flank with her heel and he set a faster pace at her behest. Names were meaningless here. The people of the Inquisition could have their Herald, but Etain lived for clan Lavellan. She looked over her shoulder and sighed. “My blood-kin gave me a different name when I came of age”  
“What was it?”  
The Valley opened up around them, and Haven came into view. She frowned.

“The She-wolf”

For a split second, Etain saw the other Elf’s eyes widen. He looked shocked.

No. He looked pleased.

“She-wolf. How appropriate.”


	36. The Final Verdict

Cullen could scarcely believe what he was hearing.

Cassandra recounted the events that had transpired in Redcliffe, explaining how the reasonably simple plan of diplomatic talks with the Grand Enchanter had speedily descended into a convoluted tale of dark magic and cult activity. After a sleepless night, it did nothing for the pounding headache that refused to depart. He touched his fingers to his left temple and heaved a great sigh. “Time-altering magic and now a Tevinter supremacist cult.” He hissed irritably. “this situation is fast growing out of hand, Seeker.”  
“I am well aware of the fact” Cassandra retorted steadily. “What concerns me is the timing. We cannot rule out the possibility that this cult has something to do with the death of the Divine.”  
“I would be surprised if that were not the case” he huffed, his eyes falling upon the heavy marker that covered the sigil of Recliffe. “If these magisters have control over the mages, their aid is already a lost cause. We don’t have time to chase after theories and speculations. Better we abandon the idea of the mages aid and turn our attention to the Templars.”  
“I would be inclined to agree” she said. “But this situation cannot be overlooked. Something must be done to contain this issue before it gets out of control.”  
“For now the Breach is our main concern” he said firmly. “If we can find a way to appeal to the Order personally….”  
“That is for the Herald to decide.” The Seeker reminded him.  
“Of course it is” he said through gritted teeth. “All things must be done to the satisfaction of the Herald, after all. To what end? She ignores all council save for that of the apostate, which speaks a great deal to her loyalties. We need a true leader, Cassandra. This will not do.”  
“She has sought your council previously, has she not?” Cassandra asked, as if to remind him.  
“Oh yes” he growled, slamming his hand down on the war table with more force than anticipated. Thankfully, Cassandra knew of his issue well enough not to comment on it. “and for naught it seems. I can well enough see that whatever answers she had been seeking were not for the purpose she stated. “  
Cassandra sighed. “Either way, with no Inquisitor to lead us, Herald Lavellan is the best influence we have to garner the interest of the people, and our only method of sealing the breach.”  
“Not if she dives headfirst into a Tevinter Magisters trap.” He muttered under his breath. 

 

The Templars posted outside the door of the waroom peered across at her curiously through their visors, silent and motionless as statues. Etain stared back at them challengingly, until she no longer felt their gaze upon her. She leaned against the pillar at her back and listened intently to the heated debate that was unfolding behind the door. Although she was expected at the war meeting, she had no real desire to become involved in the feud for the time being. She had had no time to rest and gather her thoughts upon returning to Haven, and although she was reasonably determined with her unspoken decision, doubt was gnawing at her mind. She loathed her position in all of this. Although she might have cared little enough for the opinions of those around her, a rash move would come at great cost, as would a rash decision. And the cost might well have come to affect the clan, now that others knew where she came from.   
“You’re procrastinating, dear. Best have a care, or people will take notice.”  
She glanced across the hall to where Madame De Fer was poised over her various archives. She did not look up from her material.   
Etain sighed, and continued to listen to the debate. She needn’t have guessed who was protesting so ardently.  
“We don’t have the manpower to take the castle! Either we find another way in, or give up this nonsense and go and get the Templars”  
Thankfully, the rest of the council seemed to have more sense than the Commander. Cassandra had borne witness to the strange occurrences in Redcliffe, and although she made no secret of her support of the Order of Templars, she also recognized the threat that Venatori posed. “Redcliffe is in the hands of a magister, this cannot be allowed to stand.”  
“The letter from Alexius asked for the Herald of Andraste by name.” the reasoning voice of Ambassador Montilyet interjected. “It is an obvious trap.”  
“this would be your queue, my dear” Vivienne chimed sweetly, still pouring over her dusty tomes with disinterest. “If you keep them waiting much longer things might get heated.”  
She could avoid it no longer, it seemed. Reluctantly, she pushed herself from the pillar and strode towards the room. The debate fell silent as soon as she opened the door. She could recall a time many years before when she had accidentally stumbled into the keepers tent while scuffling with her friends, and interrupted a private discussion of the elders, for the look of the war council resembled the reprimanding gazes of the more seasoned members of the clan. It served to make her even more aware of the apparent age difference. “Apologies” she mouthed at Cassandra as she went to her side, and the Seeker gave her a reprimanding look in response.   
Lelliana appeared more sympathetic. “A Tevinter magister controls Redcliffe, invites us to the castle for talks..” she cast her cool gaze upon the others without any sign of particular bias. “And some of us want to do nothing.”  
“Not this again” Josephine said under her breath, lowering her eyes to her lectern.  
“Redcliffe castle is one of the most defensible fortresses in Ferelden. It has repelled thousands of assaults.” Cullen snapped his gaze towards her sternly. “If you go in there, you’ll die. And we’ll lose the only means we have of closing these rifts. I wont allow it.”  
Etain glared at him, biting her cheek to stop her teeth from showing. She would not give him the satisfaction of coaxing another outburst from her. One way or another, the breach might soon be closed, and with her promise fulfilled, she could leave this place and ride far into the North, away from the coming war and the sinister politics of shems. She would never have to stand in the company of those that sought to use her to their own ends. She would not have to endure the insults of a chantry dog, and would be free to counter such insult with more than a threat when she was free of the bonds of obligation.   
“Ma Serannas” She said cheerfully, through gritted teeth. “Your concern is appreciated”  
It was not quite the answer he was expecting, and in response, he merely narrowed his eyes disapprovingly. Lelliana regarded the exchange momentarily before continuing. “And if we don’t even try to meet Alexius, we lose the mages and leave a foreign power on our doorstep!”  
Josephine sighed and shook her head. “even if we could assault the keep, it would be for naught. An “Orlesian” Inquisition’s army marching into Ferelden would provoke a war. Our hands are tied.”  
“The Magister-“ Cassandra started.  
“Has outplayed us.” Cullen concluded.  
Etain turned to Lelliana, who now seemed to be the only one determined to stand by her in this decision. “Gates and walls may withstand the assault of legions, but only a fool does not prepare for the worst. There must be an alternate way through. The less thought of routes; sewers, water courses, something underground that might be overlooked by invaders, but could be used by those within.”  
The war council looked at her with immense surprise. She had rarely spoken a great deal in this room, unless it was inherently necessary. Belatedly she realized she had perhaps exposed a more hidden aspect of her knowledge of the outside world. Her suggestion was considered in silence for a time. Cullen merely shook his head dismissively, but the Nightingale brightened with sudden realization. “Wait, there is something. A secret passage into the castle, designed specifically as an escape route for the family. It would be too narrow for our troops, but we could send agents through.”  
Cullen looked doubtful. “how can you be sure?”  
“I’ve been through it” she said assuredly. “It was during the blight, when the town was suffering from attack from the risen dead. The Passage was a long-kept secret by the Guerrin lineage. It was fortunate that they made its existence known.”  
“It is still through risky” Cullen said doubtfully. “Those agents would be discovered well before they could reach the magister.”  
“that’s why we need a distraction” She said firmly. “Perhaps the envoy Alexius wants so badly.”  
“Keep attention on Lavellan while we disable the magister’s defenses.” He pondered the thought, though looked less than pleased with the idea. “It is a gamble, but it might work.”  
The door behind them was flung open, and Etain was shocked to see the rather unforgettable face of the Tevinter informant she had met in Redcliffe’s chantry, with some poor young scout chasing after him. “Fortunately, you’ll have help!”  
The breathless scout, who was hardly a great contrast to every other breathless scout that crossed her path, leaned against the doorway behind him as he strode into the war room confidently. “This man says he has information on the magister and his methods, commander”  
Your Templar upbringing is showing, Commander Cullen, she thought with slight amusement, as she watched the the ex-Templar bristle at the sight of him. Dorian simply smiled back at him in a sickeningly cheerful manner before glancing across at her. “well, at least im not the only one in the room who sticks out like a sore thumb” he remarked casually. “Its good to see you again, you wonderful little anomaly, you.”  
“Dorian of house Pavus, formally of Minrathous.” She said, amazed by his unusual and impressive charisma. It was difficult to look at him as an elf ought to look at a Tevinter mage, but she remained ambiguous on her opinion of him.   
He offered a mischievous wink in response before settling into business. “your spies will never get past Alexius’ magic without my help” he said. “so if you’re going after him, im coming along.”  
The war council once again descended into silence to contemplate the situation and formulate a plan. Concern was etched heavily upon all of their faces, and for those who had opposed the idea originally, their minds had begun to work through a plan that seemed near enough impossible in their eyes.   
Cassandra and Lelliana spoke quietly by the bookcase, while Josephine flicked through the filled pages upon her small lectern. Dorian seemed contend to admire the details of the map while he waited for some conclusion, and the accompanying scout had wisely departed. Etain stepped back and leaned against the wall, shutting her eyes for a moment to ease her mind. It felt as though she were drowning in foreign waters, and struggling for breath between the waves that threw her against another complication.   
When she opened her eyes again, she found herself looking directly into Cullen’s soft, amber eyes. She blinked. He so often wore a look of severity that she was genuinely surprised to see any real gentleness in them. “this plan puts you in the most danger.” He said, barely above a whisper. “We can’t, in good conscience, order you to do this. We can still go after the Templars if you’d rather not play the bait. It is up to you”  
She blinked again, opening her mouth to say something, but no words came to mind. She should have taken offense to his reiteration of the point he had been making for some time, but this seemed different. She tried to find some sign in his demeanor, something that might better tell if he was trying to manipulate her decision, but she saw nothing, only what seemed to be genuine concern. This was the same man who hounded her every choice and action, why should he care for her safety beyond the mark on her hand? 

It hardly mattered now.

“There is no time to seek an alternative. Danger or no, I must do this”


	37. Leliana's Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Nightingale at last mourns for the loss of the Divine, and another ghost from her past surfaces in her mind.

Long ago she had dreamed that the Maker watched over to her. She believed deep in her heart that it was his voice she heard, his guidance and love that she felt, his path that she was travelling.

She would give anything to feel that way again.

As the village bustled around her with the business of the day, Lelliana knelt in the privacy of the scouts’ tent and prayed.

“Blessed are the peacemakers, champions of the just”

The formation of the inquisition was destined to be fraught with difficulty, and she had known from the start that no matter would be a simple one. The years had taught her to guard her feelings and keep a steady mind. She would busy herself with preparation and planning until she could no longer deny rest. With no time to dwell, there was no time to fall prey to despair. It rarely failed.

Enough time had passed that she assumed that Divine Justinia’s death would not bring her as much pain. She was wrong.

“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the makers will is written.”

Was it ever true? How often had she listened to the words, burned them into her mind, believed them with such passion that she could take them for nothing less than truth. The maker is good, the maker is kind, the maker watches over us all. Even in prayer, the faces of the departed often drifted through her mind. All good people, tempered with good intent and righteous spirit. All dead, and forgotten to the world. 

“Is this what you want? Blood?” she hissed against her clasped hands. “to die so that your will is done. Is death your only blessing?”

She turned to the figure that stood silently in the mouth of the tent. She had long since grown accustomed to those who were fleet-footed, for years of bard training had given her a sharp sense of hearing. The visitor was considerate enough not to disturb her prayers, and in truth, she was glad of their presence. She had questions, and this was perhaps the person to answer them. She opened her eyes, her hands still clasped tightly together, and looked up. “you speak for Andraste, no? what does the makers prophet say of all this? What is his game?”  
The silver haired elf peered at her from the bright entrance. “Does a God play the games of mortal men?”  
A methodical answer, but not the one she wanted. “Do you see the sky? The temple ruins? What of the bones that lie in dust? Even if you did not support the Divines peace, you wouldn’t call this right. Who could? So many innocent lives- the faithful murdered where the holiest of holies once stood. If the Maker willed this, what is it if not a game or a cruel joke?”  
The Herald frowned. “Ir abelas, Nightingale, I cannot give you the solace you seek.” She replied earnestly. “Such things are beyond me. My calling is that of the Creators, not the Maker.”  
Lelliana could not deny that the Herald’s faith dismayed her a great deal. No dedicated faithful of the chantry could have found true comfort in the idea of a Herald who held no love for Andraste. She bore no ill will against the Dalish elf, but she could not understand why she would be chosen above all the faithful followers in Thedas, why she would live and Justinia would die.   
“Then we can only guess what he wants” she sighed. “The Chantry teaches that the Maker abandoned us. He demands repentance for his sins. He demands it all. Our lives. Our deaths. Justinia gave him everything she had, and he let her die!”  
“A father so malevolent towards his children” the Herald mused grimly. “Even Elgar’nan in all his wrath would not be so cruel.”  
“Humanity turned its back on Him when they invaded his realm” she said bitterly. “We, his children, have much to atone for.”  
“Ir Abelas, Justinia’s death was a great shame, and it has hurt you” Herald Lavellan said sympathetically.  
“Not just me. All of us” she said bitterly. “She was the Divine. She lead the faithful. She was their heart! If the Maker doesn’t intervine to save his servants, what good is he?”  
She looked out at the chantry, saw the sisters kneel in peaceful prayer, guided by the revered mother, and envied them for their serenity. “I used to believe I was chosen, just as some believe you are. I thought I was fulfilling his purpose for me, working with the Divine, helping people. But now she is dead. It was all for nothing. Serving the Maker meant nothing.”  
She could hardly believe the words even as she spoke them. Even in the darkest times she found comfort in her faith. Now, she felt nothing but cold, and it terrified her. Why should the Herald care for her crisis of faith? She didn’t even believe to begin with. Resentfully she turned away, so the elf would not see the tears welling up in her eyes. How long had it been since she last cried?  
Gentle fingers found her shoulder, and Leliana almost jumped at the contact. “The Gods of the Elvhen have been silent for an age. We do not hear their voices anymore, we do not know if they hear ours. But still we pray” she said. “For so long they have been trapped in slumber, and in that time, my people have seen two great dynasties fall. They have fallen from grace and immortality, they have suffered as slaves of the Imperium, walked through sand and dessert and seen their numbers wither away in the hopes of finding a true home, lost the knowledge of their own history, and lived as enemies of the usurpers who destroyed all they held dear.”  
Leliana turned, and saw the fierceness in the elf’s eyes as she spoke. “But still we have prayed. For all that we have lost, we do not lose faith, for if we do, it is then that we are truly lost, and without purpose.”   
The tears she held back stung her eyes until she shut them tightly to lock them away again. There was so much power in the Heralds words, but they soothed as much as they renewed her grief.   
“this is my burden” she said, more to herself than the Herald. “I regret that I even let you see me like this. It was a moment of weakness. It will not happen again.”  
The Herald’s comforting hand withdrew from her shoulder, and she opened her eyes again, hardening her expression to its usual mask of passivity. Drawing her shoulders back with a deep breath she turned to her.   
“You remind me of someone I knew long ago” she said, her voice calm, though her heart was heavy, and growing heavier in rememberance. “A Dalish Elf, just like you. I met her during the blight, travelled with her, came to know her as a friend. She never asked to play the hand she was dealt, just as you do not.”  
Another face from long ago drifted in her mind. Ten years had passed, but still she could remember; eyes of steel blue and rich red hair as dark as blood, with skin as pale as moonlight, and markings- vallaslin, she called them, for June- of emerald green looping over her cheeks and down her chin. She was fierce, and stubborn, and full of laughter that never truly met her eyes. Leliana wished she could not remember those days, when the world was falling apart, but she was truly happy.  
She looked at the Herald with hard eyes. 

“I will pray for you, Herald Lavellan” She said. “I will pray that you have a better fate than hers.”


	38. TheTrap is Sprung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The magister's plan is revealed, and the situation is worse than anticipated.

The last sliver of sunlight vanished behind the high walls of castle Redcliffe as they approached. Etain made sure to leave Asfaloth to wander outside the town, away from those who might seek to harm him as they wished to harm her. She was not afraid of what was to come, in fact she was glad of it. The trap was obvious, and left time for preparation. She would not be caught unaware. Before departing from Haven she had readied herself and chosen her retainer. For this task she had chosen Solas and Bull to accompany her. Cassandra insisted on being there too, and although she preferred the Seekers company to most, she did not care to be watched with such scrutiny, nor the constant protectiveness that made it feel as though she were a child. The Seeker was protecting an asset, a means to an end, although she attempted to make it seem as though it were otherwise. It was hardly a bothersome thought, for it was exactly how she perceived it herself. The Inquisition’s gambit, it’s secret weapon to seal the breach, however it may have come to pass. Once the task was done, she would no longer be needed, and whatever the long term goals of the Inquisition might be, she would not have need to be a part of it.  
She looked down at her hand, running her fingers over her palm. It pained her, even when the breach was stabilized, though she spoke of it to no one. She scratched at it constantly, as though it would ease the sting, but it never truly went away. The irritating feel of it she could handle though. It was the use of it that worried her. She knew it should have felt unnatural, wrong even, but it didn’t. whenever she utilized its power , she felt control, as if it were part of her being.  
“You must let me study it sometime” Dorian said wistfully as he sidled up alongside her. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Do you ever wonder just how much it can achieve?”  
“No” she said flatly. “It does what is necessary. I do not think beyond that.”  
The mage gave her a compliant grin, and questioned her no further. Before they made it into a populated area, he pulled back from their retinue and went on his way. It had been decided before their departure that his arrival alongside hers might provoke a less desirable outcome given his affiliation with Alexius.  
It was a lie. Magic had fascinated her as a child, and even now she thought upon what else it might be capable of. The Keeper would wish to see it for herself, perhaps study it further to trace its origins. So long as it presented no threat, she was content. There was a raw and strange power to it, but understanding it would be the first step towards deciding what to do with it in the future. Better the keeper investigate it rather than a Tevinter Magister.  
The streets were quiet as they walked the path to the keep, not a single civilian nor mage in sight. “Alexius is confident” she thought grimly. “His mages will know of his plan, and so will the people. He thinks his victory is assured, and his smugness shows.”  
Once they reached the keep, they found several Tevinter mages serving as guards on the walls and at the doors, with no sign of the usual watch of Redcliffe soldiers. The air was tense, and many eyes followed them as they entered the great stone hall. Two magisters blocked their path, scrutinizing her companions with narrowed eyes behind crude, jagged masks of bronze. She was to come alone. Companions sparked their suspicions. Etain stood for a time, allowing them to look as they wished, giving them a look of feigned astonishment. “Will you not announce us?” She asked, her voice high with innocence.  
A short legged steward tottered over to them from across the room, his chubby face red and sweaty with fluster. “ The magisters invitation was for mistress Lavellan only. The others will have to wait here.”  
She stepped towards the stout little man with a fierce growl, though his two masked guards stood in her path. “I am fast growing tired of this pretense. Where I go, they go, it is not negotiable. “  
The little man tutted, shaking his head and gesturing in the direction of the main hall. The sound of the doors locking behind them did not escape her notice, nor did the exchanged looks of the two masked guards.  
Magister Alexius sat in the throne of the Bann of Redcliffe, as though it were his by right, his son Felix at his side. Two large, carved mabari hounds protruded from the wall, with great red eyes bearing down upon them, the fire between them giving them a look of great ferocity. The Grand Enchanter lingered near the crackling hearth behind him, not bothering to look up at their approach. Tevinter guardsmen stood at every doorway, between each of the columns in the hall, and behind the magister himself. The steward took his place in the hall and half heartedly announced their arrival. “My Lord Magister, the agents of the Inquisition have arrived.”  
Alexius, dedicated wholly to his ruse, rose swiftly to his feet with the warmest of smiles. “Ah my friend! It is so good to see you again.” His smile wavered for a moment as he cast his gaze at her companions. “and your associates of course.”  
“Under such a pleasant pretense as well” she said in mock agreement. “Let us get to the real point of this meeting then.”  
His mouth twitched, but his smile remained deceptively passive. “Im sure we can work out some arrangement that is equitable to all parties.”  
Grand Enchanter Fiona stepped away from the fire and at last found her voice. “Are we mages to have no voice in deciding our fate?”  
The magister tilted his head and raised a confident brow at her words. “Fiona, you would not have turned your followers over to my care if you did not trust me with their lives.”

Lelliana’s scouts would be through the tunnel by now. She had been keeping the time in her head since the moment they had entered the keep. And the timing would have to be perfect. The people of the imperium were notorious for debate. She simply needed to keep his attention.

Etain lifted her chin and regarded the magister with the most painfully charming smile she could muster. “If the grand enchanter wishes to be a part of these talks, I welcome her to do so” she said sweetly. “as a guest of the Inquisition.”

Even the Grand Enchanter seemed surprised by her tone, though the sound of it made her wish to gnaw at her tongue for the falseness of it. “thank you” Fiona said with a nod. 

Alexius looked less pleased as he returned to his seat, leaning back and regarding them both. “the Inquisition needs mages to close the breach, and I have them. So, what shall you offer in exchange.”

Spoken like a true Tevinter, to barter with lives as though even those of his own allegiance were slaves at market. Her mouth twitched. “nothing at all” she said, her voice low, but calm. “I’ll be taking the mages with me, and leaving.”  
Alexius looked anything but shocked. He snorted, waving his hand dismissively. “And how will you accomplish such a feat?”  
She did not need to answer, for Felix heaved a great sigh, and stepped forward. “She knows everything, father.” He said, like a child confessing to a petty crime.  
His words immediately drew a new expression from the magister, one of wariness, and disappointment. “Felix, what have you done?”  
“Your boy is concerned for you” Etain interceded, much to the relief of his son. “it would appear you have involved yourself in something dire and unnatural. I would not blame him.”  
“So speaks the thief” Alexius spat angrily. “do you think you can turn my son against me?”  
He rose to his feet suddenly and glowered at her, the firelight sending shadows dancing across his rough features. “You walk into my stronghold with your stolen mark – a gift you do not even understand – and think you are in control?”

Stolen….

A gift…

Her heart began to beat rapidly in her chest. Her fist tightened where the palm hummed beneath the skin. “What do you know?” she found herself demanding, before she was even aware that the words had formed. 

Alexius grinned smugly at the break in her repose. “You’re nothing but a mistake”

The sound of footsteps echoed in her ears, so quiet she had to strain her ears to hear them. They were close now, and his guards would not see them fast enough. 

“you know more than that” she growled. “you speak of the mark, you know how it came to be. What else? What do you know of the Divine’s death?”

“it was the Elder ones moment, and you were unworthy even to stand in his presence.”

Something wavered in the depths of her mind. A blur that had no form, but sprang forth at his words. Who was the elder one? 

The voice from the temple of Andraste echoed in her mind where the formless thing resided. “slay the elf.”

Felix reached for his father’s arm pleadingly. “Listen to yourself father! Do you know what you sound like?”

A single set of footsteps detached from the others, who lay in wait just beyond the hall.Thankfully she seemed to be the only one who noticed, though there was a knowing flick in Fiona’s ears. The older woman looked as though she might say something of it, but Etain cast a pleading glance at her, and thankfully, she said nothing. 

Dorian Pavus suddenly made a nonchalant appearance, unperturbed by the contingent of guards surrounding the hall as he sauntered into his masters presence. “He sounds exactly like the sort of villainous cliché everyone expects us to be”

Alexius regarded him with a sigh. “Dorian” he said grimly, quickly assessing his former apprentice’s change of allegiance. “I gave you a chance to be a part of this. You turned me down. The elder one has power you would not believe. He will raise the Imperium from its own ashes.”

Her blood was fast running cold. Whatever small doubt she may have had about her decision to come was quickly snuffed out by his chilling prediction. Whoever the elder one was, he had found in Alexius a true sycophant, ready to carry out his will. For the sake of the free elves, she would eradicate this ambition, or die trying.

“The elder one” she said, fighting to bring shape to the shapeless in her mind. “That is who you serve? The one who killed the divine, he is one of your own people?”

“He is so much more” he retorted reverently. “and soon, he will become a god. He will make the world bow to mages once more. We will rule from the boeric oceans to the frozen seas.”

Fiona gasped, clasping her hands over her mouth as she realized what she had truly allied her cause with. “ you cannot involve my people in this!” she cried.

An arrow shot silently through the air, and a lifeless body was dragged behind a pillar by two fleet-footed scouts. However she felt about the inquisitions military, Lelliana herself commanded a very structured unit. No one else seemed to take notice.

“Alexius, this is exactly what you and I talked about never wanting to happen!” Dorian said imploringly. “why would you support this?”

Alexius turned his back to them all, and gazed absently into the fire. Blind as he was, his shoulders heaved with the weight of his conscience. His son reached for him once more. “Stop it father” he pleaded, but alexius merely shrugged away his gesture. “Give up the Venatori. Let the Southern mages fight the breach. Lets just go home!”  
The magister turned then, his eyes etched with sorrow. Gone were the blazing eyes of a reverent fool. There was more to the situation than that. As Alexius placed a hand on his sons shoulder, a knife was sheathed in the neck of another guard, and another soul disappeared from the hall without notice.  
“No! it is the only way.” Alexius said firmly. “He can save you”  
“Save me?” Felix said incredulously.

“There is a way. The Elder one promised” Alexius said, as though suddenly trying to convince the boy of his good intentions. “If I can simply undo the mistake that happened at the temple…”

His eyes fell upon Etain when he said it; Mistake. 

Felix looked at him with a brave gaze. “Im going to die. You need to accept that!”

Alexius kept his gaze upon her, the boys words deflected without thought. His face twisted into pure anger. He raised his hand. “Seize them, Venatori!” He bellowed, his finger pointed squarely at her. “The elder one demands this woman’s life.”

Her index finger and thumb were already resting beneath the hilt of her sword, ready to pull it free from its sheath, but she knew it was not necessary; Alexius’ face fell as soon as the bodies did. Behind her, six masked mages dropped to the floor in unison, clutching bleeding throats as they spluttered their last breath. Their assassins stepped out from the shadows, and made their presence known. 

“Your men are dead, Alexius” she said pointedly, raising a brow. “your trap has failed.”

Alexius roared with frustration and stomped down the steps towards her. “You!” he bellowed. “are a mistake! You never should have existed!”

That wasn’t the trap, her mind screamed, and her instincts responded, even before he raised his hand to his neck, and revealed the true end-game. “Stay back!” she roared without looking back, sensing the others closing in to shield her as the mage ripped the chain from around his neck and held it in the palm of his hand, where it instantly drew upon his own magic and levitated inches from his palm in a thunderous, rippling aura of dark blue. Dorian was the only one who did not heed the command. Without warning he dived in front of her. “No!” he shouted, the end of his staff crashing down upon Alexius’ extended arm before the object on the chain could unleash its true nature.

Or so she had hoped. 

Alexius staggered backwards, momentarily blinded by the light from Dorian’s staff, and the object soared through the air, detonating only meters away from her, and creating a gaping portal in the center of the hall. 

She never had the chance to look back. She tried to open her mouth and scream at the others to run. She tried to catch sight of the enemy who had unleashed this monstrosity. 

She never had the chance to do any of it, for the pull was too strong. All she could do was stifle the scream as every inch of her was wracked with abnormal pain, and the world around her streaked by and became nothing.


	39. The Bleak Future- part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cast into the future by Alexius' magic, Etain and Dorian search for answers about the world that went on without them.

Cold water rippled around her knees where she had landed. 

It took a moment to remember how to breathe, but when she did, the world around her reformed, though not as she remembered. The first air she breathed here was filled with a thick and unnerving taste; Lyrium. 

Red Lyrium, just like the ruins of the temple. But she wasn’t at the temple now.

“Something is wrong here” she was about to say to whomever it was that fell through the portal alongside her, but the two armoured figures splashing towards her silenced her confusion. Her hand went to her sword belt, and wound around the hilt just as they skidded to a halt before them. Too fanciful for Redcliffe guardsmen or Inquisition. 

Venatori.

“Where’d they come from?!” Exclaimed the man behind the ornate steel helm. 

Swords clashed before anyone could rightfully assess the situation, and so did magic. Dorian Pavus was quick to unleash a reign of fire upon both men, and their woolen gambesons ignited with panicked wails from both of them. Etain ended their suffering swiftly, separating two heads from two sets of shoulders as they flailed hopelessly. They could hardly offer up much resistance, and their bodies fell into the water with a hiss as the fire was quenched. The smell of death and unnatural energies combined made her want to wretch, but she attributed the compulsion more to the portal they had just been cast out of. 

“Right. Well, now that that’s over” Dorian huffed as he delicately stepped over the bodies. He spun around and examined the room more carefully. “Displacement. Interesting! Its probably not what Alexius intended. The rift has moved us..to what? The closest confluence of arcane energy?”

He knelt, and Etain took a moment to lean against the metal bars at the entrance of the room. Thankfully they had not been locked, unlike every other cell in the hall. “We were in the castle hall” she clarified. “that is the last thing I remember”

Dorian nodded thoughtfully, rubbing his chin as he contemplated the situation. “Let’s see. If we’re still in the castle, it isn’t…” He rose to his feet swiftly and clicked his fingers. “Ah! Of course! Its not simple where – its when! Alexius used the amulet as a focus. It moved us through time!”

“Fenhedis lasa” she hissed, shocked by his theory. “That is not better! It is worse! Did we go forward or back? And how far?”

“Those are excellent questions” he said, chewing at his lower lip. “we shall have to find out, wont we? Lets look around. See where the rift took us. Then we can figure out a way to get back. If we can.”

“Then lets go” she agreed staunchly.

Dorian nodded grimly. “Right behind you.”

 

The entire floor was flooded. Water cascaded down from gaping holes in the ceiling. None of the cells were occupied. Nodes of red Lyrium littered the area in large quantities, sprouting from the walls and floor like a nightmarish forest of weeds overtaking an abandoned fortress. This place seemed to be abandoned, at least this wing in particular. Etain wondered how deep underground they were. It was a wonder that the water hadn’t claimed the entire corridor for the amount that flowed down from the upper floors. There were no guards here beyond those that had discovered them. Likely a routine sweep of the unoccupied areas of the castle, meaning there would be more ahead if one rotation had not returned. 

“Alexius certainly made a dreadful mess of this place, hasn’t he?” Dorian sighed, as they weaved through empty cells to avoid the jagged spikes of lyrium protruding. 

By one of the doorways, Etain discovered a half-submerged chest peaking out from the water, and managed to wrench it open. “I didn’t see this part of the castle before” she said absently as she searched through the contents; nothing but rusted pieces of armour, torture implements, and barely readable journal notes from a leather diary long since decayed. She shivered at the thought of how long they might have been there. 

Dorian quietly opened the door and inspected the next hallway. “This place was covered in the tackiest carvings of wolves and dogs I’d ever seen.” He said, wrinkling his nose. “This is not an improvement.”

Three decaying corpses lay slumped against the wall in the next hallway. Their faces had long since fallen away, with some small clumps of rotted flesh still clinging to their skulls. The smell of death mingled with the humidity, and it stung her eyes. 

These dungeons had been used for torture. 

Tools were left abandoned, strewn about the empty corridor, where the walls were splattered with blood long since dried into the stone. No one had bothered to clean it off. She hated the sight of it. Her mind conjured up the screams that once perhaps echoed through this place. Or perhaps they were screams from another place, another time, one that had meant something, and changed everything. But time was an irrelevant word right now. That time may not have happened yet, or perhaps it was buried even deeper in the past. Etain muttered a curse under her breath. She had too often found herself bewildered recently. Not even knowing what point in time she was standing in was immensely frustrating. 

They continued to move upwards, and thankfully the flooding was not so apparent on the higher levels. Some of the cells here were occupied, either by more rotted corpses or poor souls who had lost their minds to the madness of isolation. Sometimes they stopped to listen to their ramblings. These men did not beseech the maker, as most men did in perilous and hopeless situations. Between slurred and incomprehensible words, she heard “elder one”, whispered over and over again. None of them even noticed them pass. They huddled in their cells, gaunt from starvation, close to death…wearing inquisition colours, Redcliffe sigils, and the robes of the Venatori. None of that compared to the most horrifying aspect of what she saw; the lyrium that sprung from the cracks in the stone floor had begun to latch on to them, clawing up their limbs, as though it would devour them whole in a slow, torturous process. “Best we keep moving, there’s nothing we can do for them now” Dorian said, reaching for her shoulder, but she shrugged his hand away, and tore her eyes from the dying men.   
They walked in silence for some time. Etain had never met Tevinter citizens before, much less magisters, and never felt remotely compelled to. She didn’t care to fill the silence with idle chat. “Fifteen minutes” she muttered to herself, and held out an arm to halt him before they ascended the stairs.   
He raised a brow of confusion. “Fifteen minutes since the last watch discovered us” she clarified, pulling him to one side. “How many levels are there before the ground floor?”  
“Three from the secret entrance on the lowest floor” he said. “why?”  
“Another watch will come by soon”   
He raised his eyebrow. “how do you know?”   
She shook her head impatiently. “One rotation has not returned. It will not have taken them long to discover that. More will come by soon to investigate the cause of the delay. No matter what point in time we have landed in, this castle is no longer occupied by its rightful inhabitants. We will have to take them out just a few at a time to gain an advantage until we have our bearings.”   
He blinked, his lips curling into a wicked smile. “I’d wager a guess this isn’t your first attempt at infiltration.”  
She didn’t answer. Instead she seated herself on an overturned barrel and waited. Dorian leaned against the wall and picked at the faded bloodstains that had accumulated on his previously immaculately white robe. “This is going to be a nightmare to get out” he mumbled.   
Etain closed her eyes, curling her toes and grimacing at the unpleasant puddles that were pooling in her boots. She took advantage of the short time she had and kicked them off, pouring the water onto the floor. She wondered what the clan would think of her fighting alongside a Tevinter mage. Already she worked alongside the chantry, not to mention Templars. Juna would complain when she returned – if she returned – about trailing some foul stench back with her, and no doubt demand that she take a bath. She wouldn’t take offence to that. At least she could wash away the memories of the last few months. She opened her eyes again, and frowned. The prisoners muttered about the elder one. Alexius spoke of the elder one as well. It was more likely that they had been thrown forwards rather than backwards. If that were truly the case, what had become of the clan? There was no way to see how badly the world outside had been affected when they were so far underground.   
Several minutes passed in silence, until Dorian grew bored and attempted to break the monotony. “So…A Dalish elf? The chantry must just love you” he remarked cheerfully, or at least as cheerfully as a person could be when in such a situation. “I must admit, ive never met one of your kind before. Are your people particularly different from your city relatives?”  
She sighed, and narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes.”  
“Truly? In what sense? Besides those markings of course. What are they suppose to symbolize exactly?”  
“Many things” she muttered.  
“are they permanent then? Or just applied daily?”  
Creators, how much she preferred the silence! “Permanent” she grunted.   
Dorian sighed and crossed his arms. “Not much for pleasant conversation are you?” he tilted his head and regarded her with discerning eyes. “Or is this a racial thing? What with the bad history and all that.”  
Etain shrugged. “I have never met Tevinter mages before travelling with the Inquisition” she said. “and since then, I have met one magister and his associated thugs who have tried to kill me, and one who talks too much.”  
The mage didn’t so much as bat an eye. Instead, he chuckled and shook his head. “Ouch. As deadly with words as you are with a weapon, it seems” he said, feigning a wounded tone as he crossed his hand over his heart. “ Don’t worry, I am not a slaver come to imprison you.”  
She didn’t smile, though his dry humour might have been more appealing under other circumstances. “Do you keep slaves then?”  
“Ahh, now is there truly a good way to answer that? Just to make it clear, my family does keep slaves, yes. But they are treated well, more like servants really. Not all magisters subject their slaves to cruelty. It’s not as bad as outsiders imagine. “  
“No one should have to bear the title of “slave” “ she said in a low voice.   
“is it really any worse than the alienages?”   
She turned, and regarded him with a warning look. “A man is a slave so long as he cannot foremost serve himself. Alienages and slavery are hardly any different, but at least the elves there can have some sense of community and independent thought.”  
Dorian opened his mouth to protest, but she help up her hand to silence him, and nodded at the door. Their debate was quickly abandoned when ironclad footsteps could be heard at the end of the hallway above. The mage darted to the other side of the archway and readied himself. Etain sheathed her sword. Surpise would be her primary weapon. The sword would come after.   
The door swung open, and she counted the steps. There were five of them; two mages, and three soldiers. She hoped that Dorian would choose his targets wisely. Holding her breath, she waited until they descended the steps and passed through the arch. Once they were a few paces ahead, she dashed forward and grabbed the mage at the back by the shoulders, pulling him back against her, and moved her hands up to his neck. The snap of his neck alerted the others a moment too late. His lifeless body was thrown aside, and the second mage turned only to see her sword imbed itself in his stomach. Dorian swept his staff forwards in a flourished spin and brought it down hard on the ground, creating a swift knockback which sent the three soldiers crashing into a pool of water beside one of the cells. Lightning flashed across the room, and the moment it made contact with the water, all three of them cried out as their skin began to blacken and char.   
“You’d best hope no one was near enough to hear that” she said disapprovingly.   
“I think we can manage” he retorted with optimism. “Lets just keep moving. Shall we?”

The water was being filtered through a series of grates on the next floor. A large grate served as a walkway over the expanse of murky water below, leading to three doorways. One was cut off where the grate was raised, and there would likely be a lever to lower it through one of the other passages. Dorian directed her to the door leading to the route he remembered; the upper level dungeon. Bones were scattered along the corridor here, but there were no traces of blood. She had to duck to avoid the Lyrium nodes that stretched across the passage from one side of the ceiling to the other, cracking the stone so that more water trickled down from above. Waterlogged books and papers floated in the puddles here as well. The further she walked, the more she could hear voices from the cells. She stopped dead in her tracks. “What is it?” he asked.  
“I hear something” she said quietly, focusing harder on the voice that gave her pause.   
It was coming from the doorway up ahead. The voice sounded familiar, but there was something unnatural about it even so. “…The light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world and into the next…”  
Cassandra. It was unmistakable. She ran to the door and rammed her shoulder hard against the wood until it crashed open. “For he who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water…”  
More cells, but only one was shut. She approached slowly, and her eyes widened with shock. Kneeling on the floor, surrounded by large jagged peaks of Lyrium, was the Seeker. Something was not right about her. She would have expected someone to look poorly in these conditions, but it was something entirely different. A harsh red glow emanated from her, where prominent unworldly crimson veins crackled like tiny bolts of thunder.   
Etain could not find her voice all of a sudden. Both she and Dorian simply stared in shock. Cassandra’s prayer ceased suddenly. Slowly, very slowly, her head rose, and her eyes – bloodshot and hidden behind the prominent glow of red – regarded her as though she were staring at something equally unnatural.   
“can it be?” she rasped, her voice crackling harshly. “you have…returned to us? Has Andraste given us a second chance?”  
Her voice sounded more despairing than hopeful. She unsteadily crawled towards the bars, and looked up at her with wide eyes. “Maker forgive me. I failed you. I failed everyone. The end must truly be upon us if the dead return to life.”  
Etain knelt, and reached out to touch the hand that was wrapped tightly around one of the bars. “you look wounded. Maybe we can help”  
Cassandra jumped at the contact, realizing that she was no spirit come to taunt her. “Nothing you can do can help me now” she said sadly. “I’ll be with the Maker soon.”  
Etain looked up at Dorian imploringly, but he shook his head. “Alexius sent us forward in time. If we find him, we may be able to return to the present.”  
Cassandra leapt to her feet, steadying herself against the bars. Her short hair had grown longer during her imprisonment, tangled and disheveled against her cheeks. Her eyes developed a flicker of hope at Dorian’s words. “Go back in time?” she breathed. “then…can you make it so none of this ever took place?”  
“we can try” Etain said reassuringly, reaching into her belt pouch and praying that she had remembered to bring at least one lockpick.   
Thankfully her fingers grazed over something metal, and she pulled out the tool and set to work on the cell lock. “What happened between now and then?”  
“Alexius’ master…after you died, we could not stop the elder one from rising.” Cassandra said, pain in her voice as she recounted the details. “Empress Celene was murdered. The army that swept in afterwards - it was a horde of demons. Nothing could stop them. Nothing. “  
She managed to flick up the last tumbler in the lock, and pulled the door open. “I wish I had been there to help you” she said, her eyes downcast.   
It was a lie. She didn’t wish she had been there. She simply wished it hadn’t happened. No one deserved this fate.   
Cassandra felt the earnestness in her voice, and nodded. “You’re here now.”  
Etain found it in herself to smile. “Come with us, then. Help us right the wrong that has been done.”  
The Seeker smiled back at her, a weak smile, but likely the first in a long, long time.


	40. The Bleak Future - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Etain manages to rescue the others, but the true bleakness of this future become apparent, and the consequences are far worse that she dared imagine.

Cassandra’s effects had been locked away in a chest long since abandoned in the storage room across the hall from her cell. Etain did not need a lockpick this time. Like the red lyrium claiming the stone, the lock had become more rust than metal, and she only needed to tug at it before it came apart. Her shield was lying on its side beside it, its fine polish tarnished and unkempt. The seeker stared at the sword in her hands with a frown. “Its been a long time” she murmured, fastening the sheath to her belt and picking up the shield. Etain checked over the remaining contents of the chest, rifling for anything else of relevance. There were more journal pages, written in varying handwriting. She was hoping to find a ledger of admitted prisoners, in case any of the others were still detained as Cassandra had been. Sifting through the pages, she realized they were only scribbled entries pertaining to particular incidents on the upper levels. Alexius was mentioned broadly, with opinions expressing concern for changes in his behavior, and other less relevant information about his eating habits.   
“Was anyone else taken prisoner?” she asked, turning to Cassandra.   
“The rest of the soldiers were killed when they attempted to form a retreat. The Iron Bull and Solas were captured, alongside the grand enchanter” she confirmed. “but I have not seen them since the day you died. When they placed me in that prison cell, I did not see where they moved the others.”  
Etain nodded. If anyone else still lived, they would likely have been kept separately. They moved on, down the corridor and up a set of small steps to another room of cells. She heard no movement on the other side of the door, but she was counting the minutes between guard rotations in her head. There would be more each time for all the men who had not returned. She expected double the amount on the next watch, but they had an extra sword at their side now, and the odds would be more even. She opened the door, and peered into the room. At the far end, a body was covered in white cloth, spattered with dark spots of blood. Some cells were so packed with lyrium that the cell doors had become trapped in the cores and dragged up into the air to hang awkwardly. The door creaked further open.   
“Is someone there?” called a voice from the cell at the very end. A familiar voice again.  
Etain rushed to the source, and there stood Solas, facing the back wall of the prison cell. He turned slowly, and when he saw her, he gasped and stepped back.   
He was affected just as badly as Cassandra by the Lyrium growth around him. His voice sounded almost disembodied when he spoke. “you’re alive!” he exclaimed with disbelief. “we saw you die!”  
Dorian sighed. “The spell Alexius cast sent us forward in time. We just got here, so to speak.”  
Etain whipped out the lockpick again and repeated the process of prying the cell door open. Solas emerged from the shadows of the cell and regarded them both, walking in his usual scholar like manner despite his long stint in confinement. “Can you reverse the process? You could return and obviate the events of the last year. It may not be too late…”  
“We intend to try” Etain assured him.   
Solas shook his head solemnly. “you know nothing of this world. It is far worse than you understand. Alexius’ master – the elder one – he reigns now, unchallenged. He used the chaos that followed the assassination of Empress Celene to invade the south. He commands an army of demons. When you return – if you return – you must be prepared.”  
“Come with us” she said, knowing she need say no more.  
Solas bowed his head. “If there is any hope, any way to prevent this… my life is yours.” He whispered. “This world is an abomination. It must never come to pass.”

 

When they located Solas’ staff left abandoned in one of the other cells, it was clear that another familiar face was not far away. A huge greataxe poked out from underneath a cluster of lyrium, and when Etain wrenched it free, she immediately noticed the sigil of the Qun emblazoned in its centre.   
Three doors down in the main corridor, a disgruntled voice rattled off a lackluster tune. “Three hundred bottles of beer on the wall, three hundred bottles of beer. Take one down, pass it around…”  
The monotone prattling was accompanied by a thump between each word, and the groan of a guard who had obviously heard enough. She slowed her steps and gestured at the others to hold back. Rolling her eyes with impatience, she stepped to one side, and knocked loudly on the door. The verse and its countdown ceased, and someone got to their feet. “Whos there?”  
“inspection” she said in a deep voice, pulling her short blade from its back-sheath. “Watch captain’s orders”  
The door was wrenched open. “what the bloody hell are you on ab-“  
She brought the hilt down on his head with a loud clank as it made contact with the metal, and drove the blade into his neck before he could so much as cry out. When he breathed out his last gurgling breath, she grabbed the corpse by the collar and dragged it inside, propping it up against the wall.   
When she turned, Bull was pressed up against the bars of his cell, his expression a mix of pure shock and absolute delight. “You’re not dead!” he exclaimed with bewilderment. “You’re supposed to be dead. There was a burn on the ground and everything. Unless you are dead, in which case that was a badass entrance for a hallucination.”  
“Im not dead.” She rolled her eyes, wishing she could have simply briefed everyone at the same time about the complexities of the situation.   
“Alexius’ spell. We were sent forward in time. This is our future.” Dorian clarified hastily, also appearing tired of the same explaination every time. “We’re going to find him and stop him, come with us and stop this horrible future from happening, etcetera, etcetera.”  
Etain pried the lock open quickly. Bull flexed his muscles and cracked his neck with a grunt. “Well, this is my present, and in my past I saw you both die”  
“Im no more dead than you” Etain said, handing him his axe.   
Bull swung it back and forth to test the weight and grunted again. “Good, now dead and not dead are up for debate. That’s wonderful.”  
“This conversation has taken a turn for the moronic. Just come with us. We’re going to fight Alexius.”  
Bull glanced down at him. “Yeah yeah. I heard you the first time, ‘vint. Whats the point? Wanna see what new tricks he’s learned. He’s not the one you should be worried about. Its this “elder one”. His army is all demons. Ever fought a demon army? I don’t recommend it.”  
“Well…shit” Etain muttered, surprising herself with the use of a common- tongue profanity.   
Bull offered a half-hearted laugh. “I know, right? Lets just get going. No time like the present.”

With the party reformed, they resumed their search for a route to the upper levels. Once they returned to the center room, the next guard unit was ready and waiting. Etain abandoned the subtle approach this time. She had reinforcements now, including two mages, a remarkably short-tempered Cassandra, and a bloodthirsty Bull. They didn’t need to match their numbers. Even at ten against five, they cut through their numbers with spell and blade with ease. When she pushed the last living Venatori over the edge of the grate, she stood and watched as his lifeless body fall into the chasm below. It landed in the water with a large splash, and her rotation countdown reset. There would either be a full force sent to investigate, or none at all depending on the organization of higher ranks. From the looks of it, organization was far from a priority. The world was coming to an end so far as everyone seemed to be concerned. A few more deaths were likely insignificant now. She dreaded to think what the world above even looked like.   
While searching for the lever to bring down the barrier at the route to higher ground, they came across another series of doors. One particular door was slightly ajar, and whimpering could be heard on the other side. Four more cells, and one in particular was surrounded with lyrium, and cast a bright, sickening red glow across the otherwise dark room. What resided behind the bars was a true horror.  
The creature standing before her might have once been a person, but what made her a person had long since begun to disappear. The Grand Enchanter was slowly succumbing to the horrendous growth of Lyrium that encased her legs and torso. Only her arms and head remained unhindered, and she leaned against the wall, groaning and weeping and trembling like a leaf. “Fiona” Etain said gently, her eyes wide.   
The thing that was once Fiona looked at her, too weak even to change her expression. “You…you are alive” she rasped feebly. “I saw you…disappear…into the rift…”  
“What is…happening to you?”  
She licked her dry lips, leaning her forehead against the wall. “The Red Lyrium…it’s a disease…the longer you are near it….eventually…you become this…then, they mine your corpse for more….”  
Etain gasped, lost for words. Dorian stepped forward and swallowed his disgust. “Can you tell us the date?” he asked very gently. “It’s very important”  
Fiona nodded slowly. “Harvestmere…9:42 dragon”  
“Nine forty-two?” Dorian exclaimed. “Then we’ve missed an entire year!”  
“It doesn’t matter what year it is” Etain said staunchly, finding her voice again.   
“You must undo this” The grand enchanter rasped desperately. “The Elder one…more powerful than the Maker…no one challenges him…and lives”  
“Our only hope is to find the amulet Alexius used to send us here” Dorian said. “If it still exists, I can use it to reopen the rift at the exact spot we left. Maybe”  
“Good” Fiona sighed.  
“I said maybe” he clarified. “It may also turn us into paste.”  
“You must try” she said firmly. “Your spymaster is here. Leliana…..You must find her. Quickly…before the Elder One…learns you are here.”  
Etain nodded, wrenching her gaze from the grand enchanter. She wanted to end her misery, but it would have been a futile effort, unless she managed to undo everything. That was the priority now.   
They came across the release lever at the end of the hallway, and heard the barrier come crashing down behind them. They moved quickly now, for no one wished to dwell in this world for longer than they had to. As they moved to the upper levels, voices were heard, loud and mocking. “There is no Maker. The Elder one has taken all that was his, and will rule from his city.”  
The Spymaster’s voice rang clear and strong. “That still does not make him a a God.”  
Etain heard the crack of a hard smack, and a defiant grunt in response. No one had bothered to even close the door, and they entered the room to find a masked Venatori agent, holding a small knife to the Nightingale’s neck, where she was suspended by the chains that imprisoned her. “I will not sumbit” she cried out. “I will..die first!”  
The torturer turned at the sound of their coming, and it was the last mistake he would ever make. “our you will…” Leliana said, wrapping her legs around his neck. He struggled and cried out, alarmed, but she held firm, and snapped his neck with one hard movement. Her eyes were full of seething hatred as she did it. Etain had to shut her eyes. She had seen it before, and felt the depth of it…  
The Nightingale dangled there, her legs inches from the ground, and looked at them with not so much as an inch of surprise.   
Etain grabbed the keys to her shackles and quickly helped her down. She shrugged away from her and steadied herself against the table. She looked gaunt, pale, and very ill. “You’re alive.” She said simply, rubbing her wrists.   
Etain did not need to imagine how difficult it had been to endure such torture. The sight of it made her flare up with such anger that she struggled to push it away. You can undo this too, she reminded herself fervently. She could not undo her own past, but she could undo this.  
Cassandra rushed to help her. “You’re safe now” she said reassuringly, but Leliana simply pushed her away before she could touch her.   
She wheeled around and faced Etain. “Forget safe” she pointed her finger at her accusingly. “if you came back from the dead, you need to do better than “safe”. You need to end this.”  
She paced the room, taking stock of its inventory. “I need my weapons. They moved everything they stole to another room across the hall, including my bow”   
“Stole?”  
She nodded. “After you died, when they killed my scouts and took everyone else prisoner, we had to resort to a direct assault. Suffice to say, it did not go well.”  
Her voice was harsh and full of spite. She lead them down the hall, and continued to recount what had happened. “The Elder One tore open the sky, and his legion of demons wreaked pure devastation on everything before them. The Inquisition did not stand a chance.”  
She tried the door, but found it locked. She did not wait to pry it open. Instead she delivered a swift kick to the wood. “Alexius’ trophy room” she said grimly.  
Inside, the relics of a futile war lay strewn about the room. Broken banners lay in piles; those of Ferelden, Orlais, Antiva, and the Inquisition, along with others she did not recognize. While Leliana searched for her effects, Etain walked slowly around the room. It was a graveyard of lost hope. She recognized some of the items, and each recognition sent a chill down her spine. One in particular caught her eye. She knelt closer, brushing away one of the torn banners, and wrapped her fingers around the black and red-tipped fur. 

A steel helmet, once meticulously polished, bearing the face of a lion. Once it had glinted in the sunlight on a bright day. Now, it rotted in the darkness, covered in the blood of the last one to wear it.

“He died leading the charge” Leliana said behind her, retrieving her bow and testing its string. She could not even bear to say his name. “He fought so hard to keep his men together. They followed him bravely into death. I think he knew even then that it was a futile effort, but it didn’t matter. He did not have to suffer for long.”

Etain felt numb. It was a strange sensation, to imagine someone she cared little for running headlong into a battle he could not win, and to feel almost sad at the thought. She dropped the helm to the floor and looked away. 

Her heart stopped when she faced the door. 

The sword she had still been holding in her hand slipped and clattered to the floor. Above the wide doorframe, affixed with metal bolts and hammered with nails, was a huge pair of antlers. 

Painted antlers. 

A name formed upon her tongue before she could stop herself. “Asfa…Asfaloth?”

Leliana looked at her with bewilderment and followed her gaze. “I’m sorry, Herald” she said flatly. 

“No” she said. She would not believe it. She refused to believe it.

She walked towards the door, her hand outstretched, her fingers trembling. Her lips were trembling too. As soon as her hand made contact with the solid, painted surface of one of them, every semblance of sense and discipline melted away beneath the heat of pure, unadulterated rage. 

“HALAM SAHLIN!!!” she roared, driving her fist into the wall. “EMMA SHEM’NAN!”

Someone pulled her back and held her with firm hands. “Hamin lethalin!” Solas said soothingly, digging his fingers into her shoulders to bring her back from her senses. “Do not mourn for something that is not yet a certain outcome. You can prevent it from ever happening, remember that!”

Her chest heaved. Her eyes stung with tears she dared not shed. I can stop this, she reminded herself more adamantly than ever. “A thousand curses upon the Elder One, and his villainous servant!” she rasped, her voice cracking with raw emotion as the realization of the consequences of this world truly set in. “May the dread wolf devour his cold heart”

Solas softened his grip and turned her to face him. His eyes searched hers, hard and determined. “Ir abelas, real or no, it is not easy to see a true friend fall” he said comfortingly.

She shook her head vehemently and nodded. She would not fall to pieces for a fate that had not yet transpired. She could not.

Alexius would pay.

She looked to Leliana, who nodded in agreement. “Alexius will be in the throne room.”


	41. The Bleak Future- finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Etain and Dorian fight their way through the Venatori and find a way home.
> 
> Meanwhile, Leliana's past comes back to haunt her, and a person that she once called friend.

They walked in grim silence until they were no longer traversing through rows of cells. They had made it to the undercroft, a level below the ground floor. Leliana did not question how they had come to be there, and that perplexed Dorian a great deal. 

“You aren’t curious as to how we got here?” he asked in disbelief.

“No” she said coldly.

The mage decided to inform her nonetheless. She looked far from appreciative for the information. “and mages always wonder why people are afraid of them…no one should have that power.”

“It’s dangerous and unpredictable” He reasoned. “Before the breach, nothing we did-“

“Enough!” the Nightingale said sharply. “This world is all pretend to you, some future you hope will never exhist. I suffered. The whole world suffered. It was real.”

Dorian fell silent, nothing more to say to those words. Etain was glad. She wanted to hear no more of it. This world had gone on for an entire year, the land itself twisted and tortured by the Elder One and his army. Everyone suffered. She knew in her heart that no one could outrun that fate. Not even clan Lavellan. They would have fought too. They would have rose up and faced it before it could come and claim then. They would have died with honour. At least, she hoped they had. She couldn’t bring herself to imagine the worse alternative. 

Although the floors here were dry and better kept, the macabre motif remained consistent. Bodies hung from the ceiling, and skulls and broken bones littered the floor. There were more grates chained up to the roof over areas where the floor had fallen through into the water below. The closer they came to the top floor, the more her hand was starting to prickle. Could it feel the breach in the sky above? It started out as a small sensation every now and then, but it was becoming more prominent now. Dorian attempted to reignite the conversation. His voice was sounding more distant, although he was only a few paces behind her. Sound in general was starting to grow distant. The crackle was becoming a hiss, and she knew what it meant. Beyond the door ahead, there would be a rift. There would be demons. It didn’t matter, for it wouldn’t stop them.  
“Rift ahead” she proclaimed to the others. “Be prepared”  
As soon as she opened the door, she was greeted by the sight of more venatori agents, and the rift burst open. She charged into the fray, cutting down the first gangly demon that crossed her path, cutting at its long legs and relishing in the howls of rage it unleashed. Asfaloth would be alive in the past, if they could achieve their goal, but here, here he had died alone, butchered by the ones who were destroying this world. Her heart lurched at the thought, and it only added to the speed of her attacks. Blood an ichor drenched her armour and spattered across her skin.  
When she sealed the rift and the room fell silent, she did not bother to clean it from her face. When she came across Alexius, he would see it and know his own blood would be joining it. 

The further they travelled, the more madness unfolded. Mages wandered through the crumbling halls, not content merely to tend to their demon flocks. Two in particular had begun to lash out at one another. “The magister needs more power for his ritual!” one female voice echoed.  
Another cowardly voice responded. “No, don’t hurt me, Linnea. You know me!”  
Neither of them heard them approach. Etain rounded the corner just in time to see the female mage plunge her dagger into her companion. His body hit the floor and fell away into nothing. Two shades emerged from where he should have remained. There was no point to waiting anymore. Etain had long since lost her patience for this dying world. She rushed forth and slammed the woman into the wall, impaling her on the point of her longsword. Leliana unleashed a flurry of arrows into one of the shades and it screamed as it melted away into nothingness. Cassandra pinned the other with a rush from her shield, but it was Bull who finished it with a cleaving swing.  
“This is madness” Dorian spat. “Alexius cannot have wanted this”  
Etain came across a cache of poultices and took as many as she could carry. The rest she dispersed amongst the others, and they paused for a moment to apply them to any wounds that had been sustained during their previous fights. She sat on a stone bench and rolled up her sleeve. She took off her glove and removed the gauntlet, dabbing the green paste on her palm. A rage demon had grazed her with a fireball, and she hadn’t noticed until it began to blister. The salve soothed the unpleasant heat and smoothed the skin.  
“its getting worse” Dorian said behind her.  
She looked around at him and raised an eyebrow. “what is?”  
“Your mark” he said, concernedly.  
She nodded. “I’m aware of that.”  
There was no hiding the glow, even when she slipped the glove back on. Once they managed to raise the gate that lead to the courtyard, they knew why. The brightness of the outside momentarily blinded her, but when her vision was restored, her heart sank. She recalled looking up once at the breach, a vicious tear in an otherwise clear sky. Beyond the thunderous clouds and sickly tinge, it was untouched and as pure as it ever had been.  
“The Breach! It’s..” Bull never seemed to be shocked by anything, and even he was panicked at the sight above.  
“Everywhere” Dorian confirmed flatly.  
They all stood frozen, staring up at the sky, or what was now the sky. There was no sign of what it had once been. Pieces of the land itself floated, suspended in the atmosphere in chunks of stone and dying trees.  
“The elder one and his Venatori” Cassandra confirmed. “they are the ones who opened the breach.”  
It was an obvious statement. Nobody doubted that fact now. As they moved through the courtyard, more rifts burst to life, and the eerie silence was shattered by the roars and screams of demons. The others forced their way through, cutting a swathe through their numbers while Etain focused her attention on the rifts themselves. Once they were shut and the yard fell silent once more, they moved towards the door to the royal wing, and once inside, breathed a sigh of relief. No one wished to stand beneath the sky that served to remind of the fate of their world. This wing was unusually silent. No guards patrolled here, and even the living quarters were almost bare, save for more scattered notes. Etain was drawn to one particular room on the end of the corridor, where the door was left wide open, and better kept than the others. The stately bed was untouched by its owner, and likely for some time. Her eyes fell upon the desk, where pages were stacked neatly next to a journal. She flipped through the contents, and realized who had penned its contents. She did not have time to read the many entries contained within, so flipped to the last page that had been written. 

“Nothing works. I tried countless times to go back before the conclave explosion, before Felix’s caravan was attacked by darkspawn. Before the Venatori first arrived in Minrathus – without success. The breach is the wellspring that makes this magic possible, and travel outside its timeline is impossible. The Elder One’s demand that I change the events of the conclave can never be fulfilled. He may kill me for failing him, but I must protect Felix from his wrath….”

Dorian read over the words once she had finished, and shook his head miserably. “He lost his wife in the ambush. Felix is all he has left. I shouldn’t be surprised he would do anything to protect him, but to go this far…”

Etain had no such sympathy for the man who had tainted the world. They did not linger there for long. In other rooms, notes from Alexius’ lackeys described his deteriorating state. His paranoia had grown to the point that he had locked himself in the great hall, with a shard doorway to keep anyone from entering, and his meals left by a servant outside. Only his most trusted companions could enter, and only together so he would never be left alone with one individual.  
It became apparent that they would need to find away to unlock said door, and there was no information at hand regarding the location of the shards that would help them in this task. 

The door, when they managed to locate it, stood out in a stark contrast to everything else in the disheveled hall.  
“Makers breath!” Dorian breathed. “where did Alexius get this? And how did he even move it here?”  
“The journal entries suggested it could be opened by some sort of shards” she reminded him. “and his servants enter at the same time. They must have a shard each to make that possible.”  
They would be kept far from one another, she was sure of it. They took a break to confer and prepare. As much as Etain wished to move as quickly as possible, only she and Dorian were unaffected by the lyrium infections. Bull, Cassandra, Solas and Leliana looked worse for their exertions than they did in their confinement. 

The first shard was in the upper royal wing. While the rest of the castle seemed relatively deserted, the large dining area was heavily occupied by mages; and a large amount of traps. They approached carefully. Etain and Leliana stooped low and moved forward to scope out the numbers. Dorian followed close behind. “Try to take out that enchanter quickly” he whispered, gesturing to the mage standing at the balcony, separate from the rest.  
She couldn’t risk being seen, so gestured to the Nightingale to take him down with her bow instead. Leliana loosed an arrow and it landed its mark square in the mages back. Without so much as a cry, he slumped forward against the stone balcony, and the magic that had sustained some of the traps subsided. She managed to take down another two before the others took notice. They used the two staircases as choke points and dealt with the remaining numbers, with both Solas and Dorian providing cover from behind. Afterwards, they searched the bodies, and in the pocket of one of the more smartly dressed magisters, she came across what she assumed was one of the “shards” described earlier. It was, in fact, a Lyrium shard. She held onto it for no longer than she had to. It was small enough to fit into her belt pouch, but even there it felt wrong. The mark on her hand seemed to be of a different mind. Dorian also displayed more interest in it than she thought healthy, but dismissed it as simple scholar curiosity. 

The other shards were located in the other wings of the main floor. Some were retrieved with ease, their owners not expecting company under the circumstances. Others were wiser, and prepared for the eventuality; from hiding behind secret doors to quite literally constructing and hiding behind the walls.  
With all five successfully located and retrieved, they returned to the door. Etain removed her belt pouch and emptied the shards into Dorian’s waiting hands. He sat cross-legged on the floor, murmuring theories and rhetoricals to himself as he examined them and the door. Leliana paced back and forth irritably, watching the mage with suspicious eyes. Etain didn’t blame her for her wariness. A years worth of torture at the hands of those he once affiliated with undoubtedly lead her to see most of not all mages in the same light.  
After a long, silent time of ruminating and testing, Dorian at last exclaimed and jumped to his feet. Etain was unsure of what precisely he had done, but the golden framing of the door began to shimmer and react, and the large gold disk in the centre made a clicking sound, and turned to one side.  
Inside, they found Alexius in almost the same place as he had been before they had been sent forward to this future. They made no attempt to be subtle, yet he did not so much as turn to see who had come. Although there were no guards with him now, he was not entirely alone. Etain first recognized the bright yellow robes of his sole companion. It was Felix, but something was different this time. She didn’t focus on the boy. Her eyes remained firmly on Alexius, and now five of her companions stood where there had been six. Leliana sank back into the shadows as soon as they entered, as quiet as an alley cat.  
“Its over, Alexius” she proclaimed rather simply, not quite knowing what else to say when she had been expecting a larger reaction.  
“so it is” the magister agreed flatly, still facing the dying fire. “I knew that you would appear again. Not that it would be now. But I knew I hadn’t destroyed you.”  
His shoulders heaved as he let out a greatly bitter sigh. “My final failure”  
“Was it worth it? Everything you did to the world? To yourself?” Dorian asked, sadness for his former master apparent in his wavering voice.  
“it doesn’t matter now” Alexius sighed again. “all we can do is wait for the end.”  
“What is “ending” exactly?” Etain asked forcefully.  
The magister chuckled dryly. “The irony that you should appear now. Of all the possibilities. All that I fought for. All that I betrayed. What have I wrought? Ruin and death, and nothing else.”  
This time he did turn. His expression was one of sadness, and faint amusement. “The elder one comes; for me, for you, for us all”  
Leliana had waited for the moment he was distracted, and leapt from the shadows behind Felix, grabbing him and lifting him to his feet. Her dagger flashed at the base of his throat.  
It provoked a much more emotive response from the magister. He gasped, horrified, straining to move but fearful of doing so in case she drove it into the boy’s neck. “Felix!” he cried.  
Dorian gasped too, shocked by the sudden realization. His calm features twisted into an expression of great anger. “That’s Felix? Makers breath Alexius, what have you done?”  
Felix’s head flopped back against Leliana’s shoulder. His skin was as pale as milk, and his eyes were empty. Where there was once a shorn head of hair, now there was nothing. He looked like the risen dead, barely human anymore.  
“He would have died Dorian, I saved him!” he said pleadingly, his arm outstretched towards the thing that was once his son. “Please, don’t hurt my son. I’ll do anything you ask!”  
Alexius looked from Leliana to her. It didn’t matter what she said. The Nightingale would have her vengeance, one way or another. She looked up at her, and gave her a steely nod. “Give him a merciful death.” She said, without hesitation.  
“No!!!” Alexius cried out in horror as she opened his neck in one fast motion.  
The creature didn’t so much as wail. Blood poured down his bright robes. He landed only inches from his fathers feet.  
The magister cried out again in fury and slashed his staff through the air, knocking Leliana back against the wall. He lashed out again and again like a man possessed, tears streaming down his cheeks as he wailed. Dorian fought back against the torrent of magic he threw at them with an equally powerful assault of his own, driving him far enough away to deflect most of the damage. Etain leapt to one side to avoid a blast of fire. Bull roared loudly and ran headlong into the magister, slashing at him with his heavy axe. Cassandra flanked him from the other side, but neither of their attacks could break through his mana shield. Etain kept his focus firmly on her, dancing around his strikes without hitting back, until she saw the shimmer around his chest begin to waver, and plunged forwards with her sword. It struck only the air. Alexius’ form dissipated and reformed at the other side of the hall. Before they could reach him, he slammed his staff into the ground, and from nowhere a rift thundered into existence in the centre of the room. He drew upon the sudden renewal of magical energy and summoned a much stronger shield to protect himself while they were distracted by the demons forming on the ground around them. Etain swerved and jumped out of the way before one formed right beneath her. She let the others attend to the demons while she worked on the rift itself, sealing it once to weaken and disorient everything that came from the other side, and a second time to seal it for good. Alexius staggered, no longer able to maintain his shield once his source of power was obliterated, and once again attention was focused on him as he began to hurl more bolts of energy in their direction. This time he relied heavily upon traps, backing into a corner to stop anyone from getting too close. The energy he was expending left little enough to sustain any magical armour, and he was growing panicked even in his enraged state. Solas landed a shot with a firebolt that left him reeling as soon as his robes ignited, and he had no choice but to transport himself away again. Another rift bloomed at the opposite end of the hall, and as the others cut through their forces, Etain repeated the sealing process and left Alexius prone to another assault. The magister had expended too much of his energy too quickly, and his mana had drained rapidly from the traps he laid. He no longer possessed the means to transport, or open another rift to preserve him. He could only back away from the oncoming attack, and another strike from the melee fighters knocked him to his feet, shattering what was left of an already weak defensive spell.  
He lay on the carpeted floor, gasping for breath, his chest heaving. He was wounded, with slashes across his torso, blood darkening his already crimson robes. The party stood over him, panting from the exertion of the fight, too drawn to indulge the rage they should have felt. Etain shouldered past Dorian and Cassandra, and looked down at the pathetic, beaten mage. He looked up at her, as so many defeated enemies did, with eyes that begged for a swift death. She took her sword in both hands, raising it above her head. She thought of those that had fought and died to prevent his actions. She thought of Asfaloth who died alone, with his precious antlers taken as trophies of conquest. She thought of Leliana and those that lived on, tortured and imprisoned like animals in this bleak and hellish future. She even thought of Commander Cullen, whom for all she disliked about him, still died what could only be called a true warriors death. 

She drove the blade into his heaving chest. As Alexius choked out his last breath, his lips moved silently, mouthing something she could not hear. A single tear rolled down his cheek.

The room fell silent as they stared down at his lifeless corpse. Only Dorian wore any look of pity. He knelt at the side of his former master and friend, and bowed his head. “He wanted to die, didn’t he?” He said sadly. “all those lies he told himself. All those justifications…he lost Felix long ago, and didn’t even notice. Oh, Alexius…”

Looking down at the still body of the man that once preached so reverently of his glorious Elder One, she couldn’t help but wonder if it were all a pitiful way to convince himself that it was the right thing to do. She cared nothing for him, felt nothing for his death, but she did pity Dorian. Perhaps, if she had known him as e had, she would empathize. 

“I know you cared for him” was all she could say in the way of comfort. 

Dorian nodded solemnly. “Once, he was a man to whom I compared all others. Sad, isn’t it?”

Tentatively, he removed the amulet from around the magister’s neck and held it in his palm. “this is the same amulet he used before. I think it’s the same one we made in Minrathous. That’s a relief. Give me an hour to work out the spell he used, and I should be able to reopen the rift.”

Leliana, bow still in hand, stalked towards him with a furious expression. “An hour?” she exclaimed. “that’s impossible. You must go now!”

A great tremor rippled through the silent hall. Etain staggered, just about able to right herself. Rubble toppled down from the ceiling, coating them all in a thick layer of dust. A horrific shriek, unlike anything she had ever heard, rumbled in the distance. 

“The Elder one” Leliana said, her face draining of what colour she had left in her cheeks. 

“You have to hurry” Bull said grimly, steadying his axe blade against his hand. “this is…bad”

Cassandra, Solas, and Bull exchanged a clandestine look. They appeared so weary, their eye sockets bruised and puckered, as if their flesh was already beginning to decay. Simultaneously, they nodded solemnly. Solas stepped forward. “We will hold the main door for as long as we can. The rest is up to you after that, Nightingale.”

Without turning to look at them, Leliana closed her eyes and nodded. Etain frowned, regarding all of their bedraggled faces. “This is Din’anshiral. You walk only into death.”

“Look at us” Leliana hissed. “we’re already dead. The only way we live is if this day never comes”

Solas looked into her eyes, touching her shoulder softly. “Halam’shivanas” he whispered. “it must be so. You have the chance to change all of this. The pain will not last long for us.”

Etain lowered her head, and nodded in understanding. “Ir abelas, Hahren.”

He, along with Bull and Cassandra, made their way to the doors of the hall. A legion of demons were fast approaching; the ground shook at their coming. Leliana took her place in the center of the hall and looked back at them both. “You have as much time as I have arrows” she said. “Cast your spell quickly.”  
As she prepared her bow, Dorian focused on the amulet. Etain backed up the steps, her eyes fixed upon the rattling doors. She heard the familiar sounds of demons.  
She heard Bull’s Qunari war cry.  
She heard Solas shout, and Cassandra crash her shield into something with heavy force.  
She heard them cry out in pain as they died, one by one.  
The doors rushed open. Demons marched into the hall, with mage masters leading them. They stepped over the corpses of The Iron bull and the Seeker, trailing blood as they walked. A hulking pride demon held up Solas’ limp and broken body like it was a trophy of conquest, hurling it across the room with a roar. Leliana notched an arrow, reciting verses she could only assumed were from the chant of light. “Though darkness comes, I am shielded by flame…”  
Arrows loosed from her bow, striking down both mages and demons with immense speed.  
“Andraste guide me” another arrow struck down a Venatori agent at the head of the charge. “Maker take me to your side…”  
Etain felt her heartbeat thunder in her chest. Every fiber of her being told her to fight. This was wrong, all wrong. She couldn’t just stand by and watch them die.  
There were too many for the Nightingale to defend herself for much longer. Her arrows were spent. Enemies set upon her like wolves. She unsheathed her daggers and ran headlong into their line. An arrow stuck her in the chest and she cried out in pain.  
Etain went to run, to help her, her heart heaving with desperation. Dorian took hold of her shoulder before she could move, holding her in place with all his strength. “No! you move, we all die!” he shouted desperately.  
Two mages grabbed hold of Leliana and dragged her backwards. Behind her, she heard the rift come to life, felt its pull, but even now she could not look back. Her eyes were fixed firmly upon Leliana. 

The last thing she saw before Dorian dragged her back into the portal, was the claws of a demon rip though the nightingale’s chest. This world might cease to be, but it was something Etain would never forget.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Leliana held her breath, watching from the back of the hall as the portal bloomed into existence. The Herald roared at the others to stay back, before the black morass of Alexius’ magic claimed her and the Tevinter mage. “This is it” she thought with a loud gasp. “The Herald was the Key; and I let the key slip through my fingers. I have failed!”  
Air found its way into her lungs again in the form of a huge sigh of relief. For the briefest of moments, everything she had fought and sacrificed for looked as though it had been in vain.  
The portal that had started to fade had within no more than five seconds burst open again, and when the black smoke passed, there stood the Herald and her Tevinter companion. Five seconds, and yet something was off. When the smoke fully dissipated, the Herald looked more angry than Alexius looked confused. The magister attempted to reach for his staff, but the Herald was striding towards him determinedly. Her knuckles dug into his neck before his fingers so much as touched the wood of his staff, and with a strangled gasp, he dropped to his knees before the elf. “The Viper’s kiss” Leliana breathed with wonder. Few assassins could master such a feat as performing paralysis without the aid of toxins.  
“You’ll have to do better than that, Alexius” the mage said disapprovingly, looking down at the magister with pity.  
“You are done, here” The Herald said dryly. “You failed. I hope your master is a forgiving sort.”  
Leliana signaled to her scouts. They hauled Alexius to his feet and bound his limp wrists in shackles. The magister shook his head. “You’ve won. There’s no point in extending this charade.” He looked to his son Felix with despairing eyes. “Felix…”  
The boy placed a hand on his fathers shoulder and offered him an assuring smile. “Its going to be alright father.”  
The magister shook his head, eyes welling with unshed tears. “You’ll die”  
Felix nodded resolutely. “Everyone dies.”  
She admired the boys courage. Whatever it was that affected him would claim him soon, she surmised, yet he faced his fate with bravery. Alexius had no choice but to bow his head, humbled by the boys words, as simple as they were. The guards escorted him out, and Felix followed. Leliana allowed it. Whatever Alexius had planned to do, whatever chaos he might have unleashed, it would have been a great cruelty to keep him from his dying son at a time like this.  
Dorian watched them leave, frowning deeply. With a great sigh and a shake of his head, he managed a false smile. “Well, im glad that’s over with!”  
The doors of the great hall were flung open unceremoniously behind them. Soldiers bearing the standard of Denerim marched into the room in neat formation, taking the place of the Tevinter guards who lay strewn across the floor. “ Or not” The mage muttered to himself.  
Leliana swallowed hard, and frowned. She knew what this meant, and dreaded it deeply. Escorted by his honour guard, King Alistair thundered into the hall, squarely focused on the shaken grand enchanter who stood beside the throne of the Arl. She might have thought him a ghost of the past. But a ghost was a quiet thing, and Alistair lacked such a grace, now more than ever. He looked a shadow of himself, the man she once knew buried beneath a much weightier physique, not at all to do with the burden of the crown. He’d been a sweet young man once. That man seemed long gone now. Where once his features were angular and sharp, they were now jowly and almost formless. He looked much older than his age. She wondered whether it was simply the sedentary lifestyle of royalty, or the years of drinking and guilt that stole away the good-natured young man who she once fought beside. Stuffed into the elegant furs of his station, he glowered at the downtrodden leader of the free mages with furious eyes. “Grand Enchanter, I would like to discuss your abuse of my hospitality.” He said fiercely.  
Fiona, clasped her hands together and came forward, her eyes fixed on the floor. She dared not meet his gaze. “Your majesty”  
“When I offered the mages sanctuary, I did not give them the right to drive my people from their homes!” he bellowed, bearing down on the woman who flinched at the harshness of his words.  
“King Alistair, I assure you we never…”  
“In light of your actions, good intentions are no longer enough” he cut her off swiftly, and she flinched again. “You and your followers have worn out your welcome. Leave Ferelden, or we’ll be forced to make you leave.”  
She looked up at him, despite her fear, shaking her head despairingly. “But… we have hundreds of mages who need protection” she protested feebly. “Where will we go!”  
“You’ll be coming with us. All of you”  
The Herald, with her head held high, placed herself between the king and the grand enchanter, hands folded behind her back. She was the picture of calmness all of a sudden, even when the King turned his harsh gaze to her, and she smiled, her eyes meeting his without issue. Whether it was a lack of respect towards his station – understandable for one who had never been in the presence of royalty- or just a courageous thing, she showed no such fear. Leliana watched him closely, saw the way his mouth opened ever so slightly, eyes wide and drained of their fury. He was a poor politician indeed, after all these years, to so easily display such shock. He wasn’t expecting an elf, and it momentarily quelled his anger.  
Fiona, although hiding her relief well, regarded her words warily. “And what are the terms of this arrangement?”  
Leliana looked to Cassandra, who was equally interested in hearing her answer. “I suggest conscripting them. They’ve proven what they’ll do, given too much freedom.”  
“Treat them just as Alexius intended to, then. Indentured to your cause with no freedom of their own. I should hope not” Dorian said in disagreement.  
Fiona bowed her head. “It seems we have little choice than to accept what you offer.” She said, somewhat resentfully.  
The Herald did not waste a moment to think of it. Leliana realized she had already thought a great deal on the matter already. “We would be honoured to have the mages fight alongside the Inquisition” she declared loudly.  
Leliana bowed her head wordlessly, thankful that the Herald had the capacity to show mercy. What reports she held on the young elf painted an ambiguous picture of her mentality. This was exactly what she had prayed for when they had debated over their potential allies. Cassandra, however, looked less pleased.  
“We will discuss this later” she said, through gritted teeth.  
Even with the promise of freedom, Fiona still looked doubtful. “I pray that the rest of the Inquisition honours your promise, Herald”  
“The breach threatens us all, grand enchanter. Your help is needed now more than ever.” She said assuredly. “I would not expect you to do your part without freely giving your full support.”  
Alistair, taking a moment to compose himself again, looked back to Fiona. “It is a generous offer, and a better on that you’ll get from me” he said distantly.  
Fiona lowered her head. Although it was the best the mages could hope for, she looked upset. Greatly upset, in fact. Eventually, after a moment of silence, her head still low, she nodded. “We accept. It would be madness not to. I will gather my people and ready them for their journey to Haven.”  
She extended her hand to the Herald, and the two elves shook on the deal. It seemed to make the Grand Enchanter a little happier. “The breach will be closed. You will not regret this decision.”  
The Herald nodded, bidding her farewell as she departed. She turned to Leliana. “I can give you a full report on what happened” she said quietly. “back at Haven. There is more to this than you saw.”  
Leliana bowed her head silently and gestured to her remaining scouts. The Herald and her retinue walked ahead with the scouts at her back.  
“Hold a moment, Nightingale” Alistair said as she turned to leave. “It has been a while, has it not?”  
She grit her teeth together hard and breathed deeply. She didn’t want this. She wanted to go back to Haven and forget that their paths had crossed here. Donning the unseen mask of placidity she had long ago mastered, she turned and offered him a smile so sweet it very nearly hurt her teeth. “It has been a long time, your majesty.” She said sweetly. “you look well. The mantle of kingship suits you.”  
He looked far from impressed. “Save the flattery, woman. The years have not been kind to me, im well aware of that. Do me a decency and be honest at least.”  
Her smile fell away, and she was grateful not to have to maintain such a dishonest façade for once. “As you wish” she said dryly. “No, the years have not been kind to you. That is the truth. You look terrible.”  
He frowned, uttering a bitter laugh. “Much better. The first honest words I have heard in years. Now come, I wish to pay my respects.”  
Leliana groaned inwardly. “Must we do this?”  
He nodded staunchly. “You’re still Ferelden by blood, that makes me your king. You must obey your kings wishes.”  
She had to resist the urge to push him up against the pillar and shove a dagger into his gut. She couldn’t bear the disrespect in his tone, nor the childishness of it. Worst of all, she couldn’t bear the thought of obeying him in this request of all things.  
Yet what else could she do? It was pointless to refuse him. Swallowing the bitter lump in her throat, she nodded ruefully. “As you wish, your Majesty.”

 

The streets were still empty of civilians and mages alike. With his honour guard at their back, they walked in silence to the centre of the village. She would have preferred to do this alone, when she was ready, but Alistair seemed adamant on the idea. She wondered how often he came here, when things were not so chaotic. It had been a long time since she had bothered to keep tabs on his activity. It was common knowledge after all. He was far from subtle with anything. His reign was far from a glorious age. People remained embittered at the exile of Queen Anora following the landsmeet ten years prior. She had been a true beacon of hope for the people, and even when Cailan ruled, it was she who looked after the country while her husband played at war in his fantasy world of ideals. That lack of ambivalence towards the Kingdoms well being, it seemed, was a hereditary trait. The last report she had received about his conduct behind the public’s view showed that he was more interested in drinking and whoring than the running of the kingdom. It only made her despise him all the more.  
When they finally reached their destination, Leliana paused, and took in the sight before her. The great gryphon statue in the centre of the village was a fixture for all who passed. Everyone knew its purpose was more than decorative. 

It was the tomb of the Hero of Ferelden. 

Alistair stared up at it, tentatively placing his hand upon the stone. “Ten years” he breathed. “Ten years since that day, and still I can remember it.”

“So can I” she said, when she approached. 

“I made sure the people would always remember” he said, voice low and sad. “I made sure she would have a day. “Heroes day” I called it, for her. So everyone would know what she did, and never forget who she was.”

 

Leliana felt the beginnings of tears prickling at her eyelids. “Yes, I know.”  
The King leaned his head against the cold stone, his shoulders heaving. She could hear his voice waver. He would weep for her, she was sure of it. 

He didn’t deserve to.

“She was always too good for this world, you know” he said, sniffling as he tried to hold back his emotions. “I would have married her. We could have been happy together. If fate had been kinder, perhaps. Maker, what I wouldn’t give…”

Leliana pushed back her tears. He had no right to do this, to say any of this. She hated him for it, all of it. “It was never a matter of fate. You know that. Stop this nonsense Alistair!” she said in a bitter hiss. 

“Its true!” he said, not caring for the fact that his own guards stood just a few feet away, to see their own king weep like a child. “I loved her, Leliana. More than life! I would never..”

“But you did” she said, unsympathetically, standing behind him with her arms folded. “You destroyed her. You took the crown out of spite and cast her aside in an act of vengeance. She trusted you more than anyone, and you turned on her because she would not –“

“Because she let that bastard live!” He cried, a mix of frustration and despair. “She could have brought the wardens justice. Instead, she chose him. She chose him over me. Don’t you understand? I was angry, so, so angry…..I wasn’t thinking about the consequences.”

Leliana shook her head. “You cannot even say her name, can you?”

Alistair turned, his face half concealed where it was buried in his arm. “Don’t”

“Say it!”

There was silence, save for the shuddering breaths of the fool who knelt before the statue.

“Lynaia” he said at last, tears rolling down his cheek. “Lynaia, the woman who made my life worth living. Who died cursing my name.”

A single tear managed to escape and trickle down her cheek. Leliana bit her lip to stop the trembling. “I hope she did. You deserve no less.”

He nodded. His sobbing continued and his guardsmen did there best to conceal the fact that they saw it. 

Leliana turned to walk away, but stopped to look back at him over her shoulder. “I loved her too, Alistair.” She said coldly. “but I never would have betrayed her as you did.”

 

She left him there in the darkness to cry away his pain. He never married, never considered it so far as she heard. He sought to replicate what he once had with whatever woman he might bring to his bed she supposed, but it would never be enough. Lynaia was not a woman who could be forgotten. Leliana would never forget her. When she sacrificed herself to the Archdemon, she had mourned for years, and perhaps still did. 

While Alistair poured out his heart over the Gryphon statue that everyone knew as her tomb, Leliana had a secret that she held close to her heart, one that would never be told.

When her day of remembrance came about once more, Leliana would go to the Brecillian forest, not to Redcliffe, to be with the woman she once loved, to the exact spot that clan Saberae had taken her after they retrieved her body from the tomb under cover of night, with Leliana’s help.

Lynaia was too good a person to be encased in stone. 

Deep within the heart of the woodlands, a willow tree grew over her true grave, where it represented the beauty of her being, and the sadness of the life she once lead.


	42. Of the world that never was, and never would be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Etain, Dorian and Leliana speak of the events that never came to past, with the threat of their potential still lingering, and Etain finds herself making an unlikely friend.

The beginnings of dawn began to show over the horizon as they departed from Redcliffe. The moment they walked out into the open, Etain looked up at the sky. The stars were beginning to retreat as the red hue of morning crept across its expanse. Further in the distance, over the mountains where the snow never melted, the Breach still carried its disturbing colouration, surrounded by black and thunderous clouds. But what mattered was that there were still clouds, and stars, and a sun and moon. This world was right, even if it was somewhat scarred. No legion of demons had overtaken it. The trees were still green, and the ground un-poisoned. Yet still, there was only one thing that could reassure her.

Outside the gates, she scurried up the hill and frantically looked around. She clicked her tongue, waiting, and her heart refused to beat all the while the call went unanswered. She repeated the audible click twice more, and sweat began to form upon her brow as panic set in. “Asfaloth!” she cried out, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Come! Asfaloth!”

Everything was still, even the gate guard who craned his neck to observe her curiously. “Gods be good, what if some cultist has found him?” she thought worriedly.

She stood, tapping her foot impatiently, pushing away other such theories of a dismal nature. The tightness of her chest uncoiled at last when the call was answered with the loud whinny of her friend and the rattle of hooves over stone. Out from the Western path, Asfaloth charged towards her, tossing his head in shared relief. She ran towards him, her eyes wet with much needed relief, and she threw her arms around his neck and pressed her face to his warmth. “Fenhedis!” she sobbed, nuzzling him. “You know how to make me worry, you great fool of a beast”  
Asfaloth uttered a belligerent grunt, surprised by the burst of affection she was showing, but he reciprocated it in kind, butting at her shoulder with inquisitive snuffles as he checked her over. He licked her cheek with his huge tongue, and she laughed loudly in response. “Everything is right now” she said aloud, patting his flank. “At least, it will be soon. And then we can go home at last.”  
The hart grunted and lowered himself so she could mount. Etain wiped the tears from her cheeks once she settled into the saddle. It would do her no good to allow anyone to see her in such a state. Tears were not a common thing for her, but she was grateful that they were tears of joy even so. 

 

Upon Leliana’s recommendation, they stopped along the road back to Haven, where they could talk in private away from the prying eyes of others. The Nightingale lead them to an inn, a small establishment that was barely noticeable even in the countryside, and ordered a select few of her people to wait outside. The rest she commanded to continue on and scout their route back for any signs of danger. She knocked on the door, waiting a few minutes for the innkeeper to rouse themselves from sleep. He was a stout man with freckled skin and raggy hair. He blinked, bleary eyed from his slumber, and regarded the three of them with disdain. “We’re closed.” He grumbled. “Come back in a few hours if you want use of a room.”  
Leliana held up a weighty coinpurse. Its contents jingled, grabbing the attention of the innkeeper. “We would like one now if its all the same. As far away from the other patrons as possible.”  
He took it without hesitation and immediately began to count the coins. After a moment, he nodded, pleased with his take. “Lucky for you we’ve not got any other patrons. War’s gone and scared them all off, and I don’t take none of them rebels, nor the Templars. They want their comforts they never should have started all of this. Ill get the keys, if you’ll just follow me.”  
Leliana bowed her head and smiled, gesturing to them to follow.   
The room was cramped, but sizeable enough for their business. The innkeeper supplied them with some paper and quills, and a small pot of ink. He brought a lantern and hung it on the wall, and for all the gold he was given, even supplied them with the last days leftover bread, some cheese, and three cups of ale. They settled into business right away.  
It did not take much to account for what happened. The memory had burned into Etain’s mind and had no intention of diminishing its clarity. Dorian chimed in whenever she struggled when it came to the details of Alexius’ magic. Everything else, she accounted for in grim detail. Leliana’s quill worked quickly, ever scratching against the paper as she penned the details. Not once did she flinch, not even when she heard of her own fate. When at last they were done, and everything was documented, the fruits of their labour was a neat stack of papers, seven pages long, front and back. Leliana placed the quill back in the pot and leaned back in her chair, her lips drawn tightly as she took it all in. “This is grave indeed. What you saw in this future is beyond anything we could have considered previously” she said thoughtfully. “So many details, and many more questions. We are to face something much more dire, that much is certain.”  
Both of them nodded in response. Leliana sipped the last of her ale and stood up. “In any case, this information will need to stay close to the war council. It would do us no good to let others know just how close we came to utter destruction.” She said, tapping her fingers against the doorframe. “I will go and speak with my scouts before we head back to Haven. We will depart soon, so meet us when you are ready.”

She rolled up her papers into a sizeable cylindrical scroll case and fixed it to her waist, exiting the room and leaving them alone in the lamplight. There was an awkwardness in the air that was undeniable. Etain realized suddenly that even with the tale of their exploits, both she and this Tevinter mage would be the only ones to have ever beheld that world, for in their actions it was undone as soon as they returned to the great hall. Only seconds had passed for everyone else in the world. They had been gone for over a day. 

Dorian was the first to speak up and break the tension. “So, quite an adventure we’ve had, isn’t it?” he remarked cheerfully, swiling the contents of his cup. “A real tale for the history books I’d say; the Tevinter mage and the Dalish elf, setting aside all racial tension and bad history to achieve something amazing in a daring battle against time itself. Hah, truly wonderful.”

Etain chewed at her tongue slightly, but nodded encouragingly. “Indeed.”

The mage crossed one leg over the other and sat back, giving her an appraising look. “At least I hope you consider it that way. We never really got to finish our earlier- later? No-longer existent? Oh I don’t know- conversation, did we?”

His cocked brow and mischievous grin were maddening, but after a few seconds wherein she attempted to look resolute and as neutral as possible, she felt a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Whether it was the immense lack of sleep combined with the ache in her muscles, she gave in, and accepted defeat. 

Dorian laughed and clapped his hand against his chest. “Aha! See I knew you couldn’t resist my charms! You’re not quite as serious and unforgiving as you let on, my dear.”

“You are not the worst mage from Tevinter that ever was, I suppose. “ She conceded humbly, still smiling at his foolishness. “But you still talk too much.”

“I can take that” he said with a grin, clearing his throat and composing himself. He held up his mug and placed his hand over his heart. “For what its worth, as im sure its never been said before, I apologize, on behalf of the people of Tevinter, for our actions against your people in the past. May it be noted that at least some of us Tevinters are humble enough to admit to the mistakes of the past.”

Etain stared at him in shock. “You don’t have to…ah, it is very appreciated but…”

“I wont hear of it. Its about time people showed a little tolerance and compassion towards one another. And remember, to these settled southerners, we both come from a despised minority. That must count for something.”

“You have a good point.” She said, smiling, and raising her mug as well. “I accept your apology then, Dorian Pavus of house Minrathous, and apologize in turn for misjudging you for your own origins.”

“Wonderful!” he said, getting to his feet and offering his hand to her. “Now, im sure the dear Spymaster will be waiting. Lets not keep her, eh?”

She took his hand shook it firmly before rising. 

This would certainly be something to tell the clan about.


	43. Nightmares

She was back again, back in the blackness of the dungeon cells, listening to the anguished cries of prisoners. Her vision was blurred by tears and blood. 

“Confess, you savage whore! Confess your sins and atone!”

The male voice was loud and terrifying, echoing across the hall. The young elf attempted to move but the shackles pulled her back, no matter how hard she tried. The guards that stood outside her locked cell did not so much as look at her. Why would they? She was an animal to them. A beast who’s death would cause no concern. She had never known hate before she was brought here, but now it boiled within her like a furnace fire, ready to consume everything in its wake. 

The torturer received no response from the woman chained to the stone pillar. She was still, resolute, calm. Even wounded, weary and broken, she was still magnificent. Though they were situated on opposite ends of the large floor, she could see her, and the girl watched in terror and awe.

“You will bend to my will, one way or another” the large, armour clad man clicked his fingers. “You! Bring me the girl!”

Both the guards turned and the cell door was opened. 

Now it was her turn. 

She scrambled into the corner, as far as her chains would allow, but it was a futile effort. 

On the other side of the hall, the woman screamed furiously. “NO! Don’t you dare lay a hand on her!”

Her demand fell upon deaf ears. The heavily armoured men pulled her to her feet, binding her hands in rope before removing the shackles. She lashed out at them as best she could but her arms were twisted back behind her back, and the pain neutralized her efforts as she choked on a lump in her throat that gurgled into a pathetic noise. They brought her before the man in his polished armour and dark hood. In his hand, he held a coiled whip, dripping with fresh blood. “You might be resistant to my methods, but I doubt this scrawny whelp is.” He said mockingly, roughly grabbing her by the shoulder and pushing her to her knees only a few feet away from where the woman was chained. He was going to make her watch.  
Her lungs struggled to pull in air. She was afraid, more afraid than she had ever been in her life. Her limbs trembled like branches in a storm. The fear shamed her immensely, so much that she wished she could cry. But when she looked up, her gaze met warm and tender eyes, and though haunted and wide and full of tears, they were reassuring. Dark, wavy locks matted with clotted blood fell about the woman’s features, her robes torn and ragged, where bear flesh was marred with lacerations and blisters. But she didn’t focus on that. Those eyes drew her focus; deep emerald in colour and full of love. 

“Da’len” she whispered hoarsely. “Banal’numin. Vallem solas la suledin”

The young girl drew her lips together tightly and nodded. She would not dishonor herself with childish tears. She kept her eyes firmly ahead as their jailor raised the whip in his hand. 

“Ma nuvenin, Mamae” she said through gritted teeth.

The sharp barb of the whip cracked across her back, tearing open her skin. She rocked forward, her mouth open wide, but no sound was uttered. Her mother flinched, biting down hard on her lip as tears welled up in sympathy for her pain. 

It was her fourteenth winter. She was not even a woman yet, but from that day on, she never cried out in pain again, for those words echoed in her mind always.

“Child, I bid you; have pride and endure.”

 

Etain gasped, rising up from her makeshift bed and leaning on her elbows. She looked around frantically, her chest heaving. Her body was drenched in cold sweat, matting her long hair against wet skin. Her sheets fared no better, for it seemed she’d been sweating through the night as well. She was trembling like a leaf. 

This was Haven. This was not the future Redcliffe, and it was not the place from her nightmares either. She drew her knees up to her chin and held them tightly with both arms, rocking back and forth until her breathing was calm.

“…Tel'enfenim, da'len  
Irassal ma ghilas  
Ma garas mir renan  
Ara ma'athlan vhenas  
Ara ma'athlan vhenas….”

The song calmed her. It always calmed her when her mind turned to despair. She sang it softly under her breath, humming instead when her voice cracked, until at last, she made it through every word with easy breaths. She rubbed her forehead against her knees and breathed a heavy sigh. 

It was the first time she had needed to sing since she arrived in Haven. Sleep had only come in short breadths for her. The night before, once they had finally returned, she was too exhausted from fighting it and gave in.  
Now, she was regretting it.  
She reached for the leather cords by the fireside and hastily tied her hair. The silver bell Juna had given her was fixed to one of them, and its soft tinkle was a sweet sound. She knew the braid would look a mess; her fingers were still numb. When she caught a glance of herself in the mirror, she did her best to tuck back the loose strands to look more presentable. Her armour was strewn about the room, but she left it where it was. As far as anyone had said the night before, she wouldn’t have need to fight for a few days. The mages were still assembling, and it would take time for them to arrive in their full numbers. Instead, she grabbed her leather trousers and shirt. Before putting them on, she took the fresh jug of water she had left out the night before from the desk. Half of it she gulped down to soothe her dry throat, and the rest she poured into the basin to wash herself. It felt good to unwrap the bindings around her breasts, for it had been some time since she had last done so. The water was cold, but it was a welcomed sensation when it splashed against her skin. With the salt of her sweat washed away, she felt some of the tension lift from her shoulders. She pulled on her clothes and fixed her swords to her belt, kneeling to take the small, wooden dagger from beneath her pillow. She never slept or travelled without it, and was lucky that it was returned to her after her imprisonment. What might have seemed entirely insignificant to others, was in fact one her few and valued possessions. Like every other woman in her clan, she carried a dagger of virtue between her breasts, tightly bound so no other would discover it until it was too late. It was no bigger than her hand, and very thin but sturdy, wrapped in a soft leather case so it did not dig into her skin when she bound her breasts. She had carried it ever since her first blood. It was her last resort, when there was no victory or chance to flee in sight. Better to fall upon ones own blade rather than give the enemy the satisfaction of capture. The worst forms of torture could pull anything from a persons mouth. Had it not been for her mark, she might never have had the chance to prove herself here and evade that fate, but the marks use would soon be utilized. And what then?  
Lastly, she went to the hearth. The fire had gone out sometime in the night, though there was some remaining residual heat. She took the last of the water and dabbed her fingers in it, swirling them around in the crumbling embers until they became a crude paste. She added the last remnants of her elfroot stash, nothing but tiny morsels of the dried leaves scraped from the bottom of her satchel, and mixed it together with the black paste. Carefully, she ran her fingernail along her eyelids until it surrounded both eyes. The mixture would soothe her pounding headache, and make the stark light outside more bearable.  
She had been informed of a war council meeting the night before, and supposed it was time to face the reactions of the war council.

 

“It’s not a matter for debate. There will be abominations amongst the mages and we must be prepared!”

It was an argument that he had made a number of times before, both in Kinloch hold, and in Kirkwall. Cullen expected this to happen, but he was no less furious with that understanding. Cassandra should have intervened and put an end to this nonsense, but it seemed like everyone else that she was content to blindly follow the Herald’s lead. She openly disapproved of the mages alliance, but fell silent on the matter when the elf proclaimed her terms without a second thought. For a short time he had thought the Herald would be more pragmatic in her decisions, but it appeared to be quite the opposite. Conscripting the mages at least would have given Haven’s Templars some level of authority in the situation, but who could say what any of the mages would be capable of without a regular watch? With the Breach weakening the veil, the temptation of demons seemed a much greater threat, and he did not care to think of the consequences of that. 

“If we rescind the offer of an alliance, it makes the Inquisition appear incompetent at best, tyrannical at worst” Josephine reasoned adamantly.

Once again he had little support on the matter. Leliana was glad of the outcome, as was Josephine. It often felt as though his voice on the council was quite a dwindling one, and that added to his frustrations regularly. It seemed he was the only one willing to take affirmative action on such matters, as opposed to the softer response of the others. How long would it take to convince them of the merit of his decisions?

The doors of the chantry opened behind them, and in strode the Herald from the cold streets of Haven. His angry gaze snapped to her, and this time he would not reign in his words with the usual expected formality.  
“What were you thinking, turning mages loose with no oversight?” he exclaimed furiously. “the veil is torn open!”  
The elf held her head high, unwavering against his harsh tone, fixing him with a cold gaze. Her lip curled back for a split second, revealing her sharp, gritted teeth. “You wanted an army to close the breach” she said dryly. “Better an allied army than an enemy one, no?”  
“I know we need them to close the breach, but they could do as much damage as the demons themselves.” He retorted swiftly, gritting his own teeth in frustration.  
Determined to get a rise out of him, she merely blinked and said no more in defense of her actions. For the life of him, he could not recall encountering a more frustrating woman than this one. Whether he treated her with kindness of openly criticized her actions, she still looked at him with the same level of disdain, as though he himself marched through the Dales two hundred years prior and destroyed the elves homeland single-handedly.  
Unwilling to indulge her maddening behavior, he turned to the Seeker for some semblance of support on the matter. “You were there Seeker, why didn’t you intervene!”  
Cassandra looked to the Herald and sighed. “While I may not entirely agree with the decision, I support it.” She said levelly. “The sole point of the Herald’s mission was to gain the mages aid, and that was accomplished.”  
Dorian, who had remained silent until now, leaning against the pillar beside them, crossed his arms and shook his head. “The voice of pragmatism speaks!” He exclaimed cheerfully. “And here I was starting to enjoy the circular arguments”  
The Herald regarded the mage with a slight smile, and he winked at her in response. Of all the strays she had brought back to Haven, this mage was by far the most unusual, and most distrustful. The fact that she displayed such trust towards him was the most surprising thing of all.  
Cassandra, however, displayed less of a trusting demeanor. She narrowed her eyes at the mage from over her shoulder. “Closing the breach is all that matters.”  
“Your mage allies will need a good supply of Lyrium for this endeavor, no doubt” The mage stated plainly. “Your own supply might not be enough from what I’ve seen.”  
“I have contacts that may help if that is the case” The Herald offered.  
“We have plenty of legal traders for that” Cullen said defensively, wary of her timely offer.  
“And they need not know of this” Leliana interjected. “We can use all the help we can get.”  
“We’ll make the arrangements if you can provide us with the contacts, Herald” Josephine said, making a note of it.  
“I can do so myself” the elf insisted. “They’ll supply in good time, but only to those who they can trust.”  
Fellow elves, Cullen supposed. How could the Inquisition function and grow into a respectable organization all the while building up such a cloak-and-dagger reputation? He had enough distrust for clan Lavellan’s allegiance as it stood.  
“Very well, inform me of the result when you can” Josephine said, somewhat crestfallen.  
The Herald nodded. “The longer the breach is open, the more damage it will do” she said quietly. “the sooner it is closed, the better”  
For the first time, he noticed just how exhausted she looked, and it softened his anger somewhat. Her eyes were bloodshot, likely from a poor nights sleep. Given all that had been documented of their struggles in Redcliffe, he supposed it was understandable. It called a great deal into question, and was a chilling report to say the least. To have looked upon the end of the world must have been a horrifying experience. In his anger he had forgotten that, and worse yet, had overlooked the fact that it was through her steadfastness that such a future was prevented, at least for now. Even if it made no difference to her, he felt he owed her some respect for that at least.  
Leliana drew her lips together and furrowed her brow. “We should look into the things you saw in this “dark future”. The assassination of Empress Celene? A demon army?”  
“Sounds like something a Tevinter cult might do. Orlais falls, the Imperium rises” Dorian said with an unsettling grin. “Chaos for everyone!”  
Cullen eyed him with a hint of disdain and sighed. “One battle at a time. Its going to take time to organize our troops and the mage recruits. Lets take this to the war room.”  
He looked to the Herald, and smiled at her encouragingly. “Join us” he said. “None of this would be possible without your mark after all.”  
The elf arched her brow suspiciously. “How kind” she said flatly, with a distinct note of sarcasm. “And I had been so looking forward to a nap.”  
He couldn’t help but snort at that. The woman probably fought in her dreams as much as she did in the waking world. “What is it they say? “No rest for the wicked?””  
Her gaze snapped up to meet his, dark, yet laced with some feint hint of amusement. “So it would seem.”


	44. Of Arlathan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Etain discuss elven matters.

The gentle breeze drifted over the expanse of the slope, stirring the freshest layer of snow so that it whirled almost playfully and settled when the air grew still. Etain lay on her back and watched the sky above slowly turn to a reddish hue. Beyond the light, beyond the clouds, she could see the stars. Night would fall soon, and she felt strangely peaceful lying there, letting the weight of the events of the past few days slide from her shoulders, if only for a short time. She learned very early on in life to take such feelings of serenity and cherish them, for they would settle the mind before the next battle. Asfaloth kneeled only a few feet away, serene and dozy after a day of trudging around further up the slopes. After the war council she found herself longing to ride off for a while and be away from the clattering noise of the village. Nothing sated her energy better than galloping atop her beloved hart. When they rode together, they were not simply rider and steed. They were one, joined by the rangers bond. She felt his emotions as much as he felt hers. Their many years together yielded an unbreakable bond, and his presence soothed her at the worst of times. No matter where she went, she knew he would always be able to find her, even if he tarried long enough to cause her worry at times. Her father always said he was the perfect companion for her, from the very first time that he threw her from his back when she tried to ride him. “A stubborn steed for a stubborn girl” he remarked, as she picked herself up from the muddy puddle Asfaloth had tossed her into.   
She thought fondly of their younger years as she watched him shake the snow from his huge antlers. Life would be dull indeed without him by her side.   
Solas came to join her when he found her there, breathless and flushed from her long ride. He himself had left to gather herbs on the mountainside, and now the two of them lay side by side, a respectable distance from one another. Etain was glad of his company. His calming presence made it easy to talk to him, and she was fascinated with his knowledge of the fade. Unlike the other members of the Inquisition, he spoke to her as a person, not just an asset or weapon. And they did speak frequently, for his council proved more helpful than most.   
“Closing the breach is our primary goal” he said, breaking the serene silence they had been steeped in for some time. “But I hope to discover what was used to create it. Any artifact of such power is dangerous. The destruction of the conclave proves that much.”  
“You don’t think whatever created the explosion was destroyed in the blast?” She asked.  
He turned his head, smiling gently. “You survived, did you not? The artifact that created the breach is unlike anything seen in this age. I will not believe it destroyed until I see the shattered fragments with my own eyes.”  
It seemed strange that he should have considered this object with such interest, and such a specific image of its appearance in mind. She supposed that was simply his way, for all that he studied. Perhaps this item would give some indication of how these events had come about.  
“The Inquisition would do well to recover whatever created the breach” she concluded evenly.  
“Leliana’s people scoured the area near the blast and found nothing” He said flatly. “Whatever the artifact was, it is no longer there.”  
To think of a singular object creating such a wave of destruction sent a chill down her spine, furthered by the notion of its disappearance. Perhaps this elder one still possessed it, but who knew what he could plan to do with it next?  
“In any case” Solas said, dismissing the subject for now. “Let us talk of more pleasant things.”  
She nodded in agreement. There was something she had longed to ask him about for some time, and now, with a strange lack of obligation to busy themselves with fighting and planning, it was a perfect opportunity.”  
“I’d be interested in hearing your opinions on elven culture”   
Beside her, Solas frowned, and sat up straight. He looked at her with somewhat narrowed eyes. “I thought you’d be more interested in sharing your opinions of elven culture. You are Dalish are you not?”  
Etain furrowed her brow confusedly. There was a distinct ire in his tone, and almost sounded resentful. She propped herself up onto her elbows and frowned. “My people come from the elves who refused to surrender when humans broke their treaty and destroyed the dales” she said defensively.  
Solas merely shrugged. “Your keeper was not wrong about that, at least.” He said dryly. “We must mark the occasion of the Dalish remembering something correctly. Perhaps we should plant a tree.”  
Etain gaped at him, anger prickling under her skin. “You insult my people!”  
Solas shook his head, his expression one of frustration that was not common to see. “They insult themselves.” He retorted swiftly. “Remember, I have walked the memories of the fade. I have seen the history the Dalish imitate.”  
His words cut deeply, hacking at the core of her culture and belief, her pride. She felt anger, but something in his words rang true. She could not deny that the fragments of her peoples history left much to the imagination. How could it not be so, when the shemlen not once, but twice, had burned away so much of their knowledge during their conquests. It hurt to think of it, her heart sinking with the grief that coursed through the blood in her veins. Solas spoke of her kind in a harsh manner, but she knew there were other clans that displayed a level of stubbornness that had long since been ironed out of clan Lavellan. She reminded herself of the bad impression that could leave. If he had seen the truth of things in his wanderings, perhaps he did learn more of the true nature of things. Sighing, she closed her eyes. “Ir abelas, Hahren” she said calmly. “If the Dalish have done you a disservice, I would make that right. What course would you set for them that is better than what they know now?”  
When she opened her eyes again, Solas was staring at her in a most peculiar manner. He was surprised, shocked even. He opened his mouth, and shut it again, shaking his head in wonder. “You are right, of course.” He said slowly, his brow furrowed. “the fault is mine, for expecting what the Dalish could not truly accomplish.”  
He bowed his head to her respectfully. “Ir abelas, Da’len. If I can offer any understanding, you have but to ask.”  
Etain drew her knees up to her chin. She did not know what to think of this sudden realization. Solas had never seemed much like a flat ear, nor did he in any way behave like one. He seemed so much more akin to her people. He knew the language of her kin, wielded his magic as a keeper would, even spoke in the same manner as a Hahren. If he had such a vast knowledge of their past, if she could just know it, perhaps she could convince him to help the people.   
“What of the first elves?” She asked, a natural place to start.   
“The Dalish struggle to remember Halamshiral, but Halamshiral was merely a fumbling attempt to remember a forgotten land.”  
“Arlathan” Etain breathed.  
“Elvenhan was the Empire and Arlathan its greatest city.” Solas said. There was true reverence in his voice when he spoke of it. “A place of magic and beauty, lost to time.”  
Etain lowered herself backwards, lying in the snow again, trying to visualize the images he created with his words. “You have studied ancient elves. What else do you know of Arlathan.”  
“We hear stories of them living in trees, and imagine wooden ramps or Dalish aravels.” He turned and braced himself on one elbow. “Imagine instead spires of crystal twining through the branches, palaces floating amongst the clouds. Imagine beings who lived forever, for whom magic was as natural as breathing. That is what was lost.”  
Etain closed her eyes. Images began to form with every word, every description, brightly coloured and verdant, but utterly distorted, for in her life she had never beheld such a thing, and thus could not bring the vision to a true form. It saddened her greatly, but it made the sentiment no less beautiful. “It sounds…” she swallowed. “Have you seen it? Have you truly walked in our ancient kingdom and seen it with your own eyes?”  
Solas nodded. “I have glimpsed it through my journeys in the fade, yes.”  
She was lost for words. Of all the gifts for one to possess, was his not truly the most wonderful? So long her people had toiled and risked their lives to piece together their own history, and here sat a man who had lived it in dreams.   
Perhaps if she had been blessed with magic, she could have learned to do the same. “I wish..” she began, swallowing the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat. “I wish I could know that power. Perhaps I could help my people remember what has been lost.”  
“It is doubtful that they would believe you” he said sullenly. “Such is what I have experienced in the past for attempting to show the Dalish the truth of things.”  
“It is our way to debate truth” She sighed. “At the Arlathvan, Keepers will debate such matters until their throats are raw. Can you truly expect any less when we have so little to show for evidence? When our history has been plundered and destroyed by the Shemlen?”  
“if that is the case, then there is no hope of ever coming to terms with the truth” Solas said sadly. “And the Dalish are doomed to wander this world as but a shadow of their former selves.”  
Etain could not find it within herself to be angry, even if she wished she could be. She closed her eyes instead, and trailed her fingers through the snow around her sides, feeling Solas’ gaze upon her as she did so. “There is always hope” she sighed gently. “So long as the people stay true to their course. You may have given up on my kind, but I never will.”  
The sun disappeared behind the mountains, the red hue in the sky retreating before the blackness of night. When she opened her eyes again, the sky was full of stars, and Solas was nowhere to be seen.


	45. Lyrium

Etain rode out from Haven before the light of dawn had even touched the land. A missive had arrive the night before, stating the arrival of the full force of mages would come within four days. She could make it to the Hinterlands within a day and still be back by the next morning if she didn’t tarry for long. Asfaloth relished the fast paced exercise. She had ridden him hard for the past three days, but still he didn’t tire. He was built for long stints of galloping. Somewhere far behind her, Varric and Blackwall struggled to keep up. She had informed the war council of her intentions before leaving, and they had insisted she bring some form of escort. As much as she misliked the idea of being under constant watch, it was not the worst of company. Blackwall followed her without question, and Varric hardly seemed bothered by the idea of the trek. She could just about make out the sound of clattering hooves behind her. It was likely they had come to expect it. During the last few months, she was admittedly confused about the way her companions followed her lead. She was no leader in any respect, but still they followed. She was much more used to travelling alone, or in a small party of rangers, usually overseen by a senior clan member or one of the more mature hunters. She preferred it that way. Although she was an adult at sixteen, her training was far from over. She could hunt and fight as well as any clan member, but the time to choose her path was still ahead. Her father was urging her to consider the warleader’s path, something she had considered for a long time, but she would have much to learn in order to prove herself worthy of such a position. She was far too young to take up any mantle of authority. It took many years to prove oneself worthy of being called Hahren.   
She came to a halt at the Inquisition camp in the west; the same camp that had been established when they first arrived there to seek out mother Giselle. Inquisition banners fluttered in the breeze, and down the path in the refugee village, she saw the banners still standing there too. There were five camps spanning across the land which bore the same insignia. This place had become much more quiet since the Inquisition had established a presence here.   
Word had been sent to her contact before she had left, nothing more than a note dropped in a doorway in Denerim by one of the Nightingales ravens. All it contained was the letters SW, and a very brief, cryptic description of the meeting location. Its meaning would be known. “I’ll need to go alone” Etain said to her companions. “I know that the war council..”  
“We’ve got you covered” Varric said with a wink. “As far as anyone knows, we were with you the whole time.”  
“Stay safe, milady” Blackwall said, bowing courteously.   
Milady. Etain snorted as she headed down the path. It was milady, Lady Lavellan, or Herald these days. She was glad no one knew her name in a sense, but the titles were…grating. She was no lady, and she wasn’t the Herald these people wanted.   
She left the path and made for the river trail, relishing the few moments of peace she had to herself. It was quiet in this region, as she knew it would be. The Inquisition kept watch over the region, keeping back any remaining Templars or cultists, who likely shrank back to the shadowed crags of the hills, or retreated from the region entirely. A bird call echoed gently through the sheltered, trickling river. Only it wasn’t a bird. Etain trilled her tongue and uttered the same one in return, and up ahead, the source of the sound made himself known.   
“Naethir” She said, unable to stop the smile that spread across her face. “I knew it would be you”  
He skulked out from the shadows, bow in hand, and smiled back at her. “So comes the she-wolf herself” He said appraisingly. “I was surprised to receive those initials. It has been a while.”  
Naethir was a seasoned hunter, just a few years her senior. He was no Dalish elf, but he was a respected ally of the clans, part of a syndicate dedicated to supplying them with information or difficult to acquire assets. He bore handsome, angular features and skin almost as copper in colour as her own, and shorn dark hair that barely showed beneath his ears. His face was bare of Valaslin, but she knew his forearms were inked with markings of a similar nature to show his loyalty to the culture of his people. Unlike many city elves, he and his people carried weapons without fear, and rarely earned the ire of city guards. Aside from his work for the Dalish, his company were mercenaries for hire, and thus earned the trust of the humans around them more than most.  
“It has” she agreed. “but I didn’t come here to talk im afraid.”  
“I heard you got yourself into some trouble” He said, releasing her and shaking his head. “Got the lamplight shining on you with this whole Inquisition thing I’d imagine.”  
“It’s a long story” she sighed, running her fingers through her hair. “I need something, Naethir.”  
“Course you do” He said, folding his arms across his chest. “Trade’s a difficult thing given the war, but its profitable. For you clan, well, that might be even more difficult if theyre still ranging the mountains.”  
“Its not for the clan” she said tentatively. “Its for…the Inquisition.”  
His brow arched. “you’d better not be going turncoat, ‘Asha.”  
“Fenhedis” she swore. “I have no such intention. This is a difficult situation to explain, but you know whats going on with the sky. Clan Lavellan has declared allegiance to the Inquisition for the time being. That thing- the breach – it needs to be closed, and-“  
“And you’ve got the mark” He clarlfied.   
“How did you know?”  
He snorted. “As I said, you’re under the lamplight now. Word travels fast when people start believing it’s the end of the world.”  
They sat for a while by the embankment and talked of the situation. Naethir did not seem surprised by all that she told him. He was never much surprised at anything that happened in Thedas. Such was the nature of his trade, when dealing with a world that shifted like desert sand in the breeze. It was nice to chat with a familiar face for a change, even if they barely knew each other. Most of their contact consisted of cryptic notes regarding trade or contacts, and he had helped her enter the conclave by providing the clan with the name of a contact on the inside.   
“Lyrium?” He exclaimed, when they finally reached the root of the discussion.   
“For the mages” She clarified. “Enough to supply them adequately for what the Inquisition intends.”  
Naethir shook his head. “Why not approach the Carta? We don’t deal in Lyrium often. And this is…”  
“An exceptional circumstance” she sighed. “The plan needs to work, and the Carta cant be trusted. I’ve seen them trying to pawn off the red strain recently. ”  
“I see” He frowned. “No small feat, and the last thing I thought you would be asking for. I’d hoped it was another placement, or maybe some basic supplies…”  
“I can promise a fair rate of sovereigns” She said assuredly. ”Courtesy of the Inquisition coffers.”  
“Gold” he said, nodding. “Aye, might be able to do something with gold. Plenty of abandoned Templar camps about here, we can raid them for whatever was left behind, have it sent up to the village within two days.”  
She nodded in agreement. “Good. I can ensure payment is there upon arrival.”  
Naethir looked wary of the plan, but the temptation of the rarely-offered gold was too much to resist. Clans dealt in equal trade, with resources held as currency. Gold was a commodity of Keepers kept for emergencies. “Alright, I’ll have my people get to work. I hope the Inquisition treasurers are prepared to dig deep to pay for this. And I want no record of our operation. This is a one time occurance as far as we’re concerned. Tell them to leave payment at the location I’m marking on the map. Two days from now, you’ll find what you need waiting there.”  
Etain bowed her head in gratitude. “Thank you Naethir, I appreciate the help.”  
“Show it with payment” he sighed, rubbing his chin warily. He regarded her with a concerned look. “So, what happens, when- if- you manage to close the breach?”  
“You know what happens” she said earnestly, with a slight hint of bitterness. “I become expendable.”  
His brow furrowed with understanding. “Do you truly think they would just let you walk away?”  
She got to her feet, looking to the hillside in the distance where the Inquisition banner fluttered in the wind. “I’ll soon find out, I’d imagine.”

 

The shipment arrived just as planned. Where gold had been left the night before, now there stood two carts, heavily laden with uncut Lyrium, and chests full of pre-made vials. Cullen gave orders to have it retrieved, and watched as two bulky bronto’s slowly pulled them into the encampment just outside the gates.   
He had to step back a reasonable distance from it. The scent, so overly familiar to him, was threatening to overwhelm his senses. Already he was beginning to feel his temples throbbing in response to his instinctual need. Unconsciously, he raised a hand to cover his mouth and nose. Was it supposed to feel like this?   
“Has it been checked?” He asked captain Rylen, his voice shaking slightly. “No traces of Red Lyrium?”  
“None, sir” Rylan confirmed. “Its pure. Our Templar’s have confirmed it”  
“Good. Make sure it is ready by tomorrow” he said. “And add it too the rest.”  
Rylen saluted and went to convey his orders to the others. When he was gone, Cullen wiped the sweat from his brow and grit his teeth together. He should have been cold. It was a cold day. But he felt heat, immense heat, and suddenly regretted the many layers he wore. He needed to be away from this. It was foolish to think he was ready to be around such a heavy concentration of Lyrium. Yet, it smelled so pure…  
“Cullen”  
He flinched, turning to find Cassandra frowning at him concernedly. He didn’t even hear her approach. “I’m fine” he said irritably, not wishing to speak of the issue.  
“No, you’re not” She said firmly. She knew what was affecting him. She was the only one who knew, after all.   
“I just…I didn’t think it would feel like this” he said miserably, knowing it was futile to pretend otherwise.   
“I expect that it is difficult” She said gently. “But it will get easier.”  
He shook his head. “You don’t know that it will”  
The Seeker nodded earnestly. “That is true, but I know you have the strength to overcome it.”  
Cullen watched the other Templars begin to unload the fresh supply. The mages stood by in neat clusters, talking amongst themselves as they also watched. Their full numbers were evident, but they camped outside the village just beyond the soldiers tents, far from the Templars who resided within the village itself. That didn’t surprise him in the slightest. He had enough to worry about with their numbers roaming about unchecked.   
“My request still stands, Seeker” he sighed, rubbing his temples to soothe the pain. “If this becomes a persistant issue, you…”  
“I know” She said. “but as I’ve told you before. It will not be necessary.”  
Cassandra’s belief in him was endearing. His belief in himself was not quite so strong. But he had vowed to do all that he could for the Inquisition, and he would not allow himself to falter without a fight.


	46. Sera and the snow

Sleep was a pointless thing to persue, however advised it had been by the others. Rest before the moment that would decide everything. How could such a thing be achieved? Etain would sleep no more than she had the night before she set out on her first trial of adulthood. She needed to keep busy, divert her mind from things.   
Pacing around her cabin, she picked through the few things she possessed that were actually hers. There was a great deal of clutter left in the small space that seemed to have little purpose, nothing but brooms and cuts of linen. It was bigger than the tent she would normally have slept in, but not as homely. Walls held little purpose to her. She carefully laid out her weapons, and then her armour, and lastly, the few pelts that she had kept to trade in exchange for supplies. Sighing, she realized she had expended the activity in no more than ten minutes. No, that would be simple to pack away when necessary. She needed to run, fight, ride, brawl. That was how to dissipate nerves. Usually. That was something to do with those who could be trusted. Despite herself, she headed out into the cool of night, looking for something to distract her.   
Distraction, evidently, came in the form of a loudmouthed elf who stank of cheap ale. She found Sera sitting on the roof of the Tavern, swinging her legs back and forth as she hummed at the sky. She glanced down, her head tilted to one side, and smiled crookedly. “Oh Shiny one!” She exclaimed, effortlessly jumping from the roof and landing with a thud in the snow. “You look like you could use a dance!”  
Etain arched her brow. “What?”  
“Got that giddy look about you” The younger girl said with a titter, poking her hard in the chest with her finger. “All that weird stuff with the mages to do, big important shiny business and such. You need a distraction. Don’t mean real dancing like them Orlesian pissheads do. I mean fun!”  
Etain opened her mouth to respond, but Sera was insistant, grabbing her roughly by the arm and dragging her down the street. This was not what she had in mind when she left the cabin. Still, some part of her was interested to know what Sera had in mind. She was urged up the hill towards the chantry, suddenly redirected further up the hill behind it until they were past the wooden walls, and then back down the slope outside the perimeter. “We could have simply used the front gate” Etain said, beginning to regret the decision to indulge the girl.   
“Nah, got to be quiet for this. Gate’s all creaky, ‘innit?” She retorted, sticking out her tongue.   
“What is going on exactly?” Etain asked confusedly.  
“No questions. You’ll see”  
Sera finally let go of her arm just before they came into the open where the soldiers camps were positioned. She was grinning like a cat, and looking incredibly suspicious. “Right, so firstly; no lectures about “oh we shouldn’t be doing this because respect and all that”, right?” She began.” Second; its funny, so shut up”  
Etain shook her head. “I have no idea what youre talking about.”  
“Promise first, then explain”  
Begrudgingly, she nodded, rolling her eyes. Sera’s grin stretched even further. “Good. Ive got a target. Show you in a minute, but listen; too big for his boots sometimes, bit on the stompy side. I mean he’s all big and important but, you know, needs a reminder that hes just a person, and-“  
Etain groaned, covering her eyes with her hand as soon as the pieces fit together. “Creators, you’re talking about the commander aren’t you? What have you done?”  
“Nothing bad, yet” She giggled wickedly. “Just want to, I don’t know, mess with him a bit. For fun. Might make him crack a smile when he stops being a loud idiot about stuff.”  
Etain thumped her forehead against the stone wall. “No. whatever you’re about to do, im not standing by to watch”  
Sera frowned, tutting impatiently. “Look, dunno why but you don’t like him, and he’s all weird about you too.” She said matter-of-factly. “I’ve seen it. Its like watching a cat and dog about over a piece of meat. Funny and all, but boring.”  
She bent over and gathered a hand full of snow while she spoke. “I mean, I was gonna do this anyways, but it’ll be funnier with you here.”  
Before Etain could voice another protest, Sera was already sneaking around the side of the wall. The fire barely cast its light upon the ground, so the area was dark enough to move without much issue of being seen by the guards above. Etain muttered a curse under her breath and peered around the corner. Dead ahead on the other side of the gate, Cullen was standing by the Blacksmith’s workshop, lost in focus as he stared intently at the papers he held. He must have been inspecting weapons requisitions, though it was late to be performing such a task. Sera, the blasted troublemaker, must have known he would be there.   
“Sera!” she hissed, ruefully following her. “Sera! Stop!just…”  
To her surprise, she did, looking back at her expectantly. She held a tight ball of snow in her fist. Fenhedis, she was going to hit him in the back of the head with it. It was a terrible plan, tactless and…lackluster. He wouldn’t notice until it was too late, of course, but…still, what was the point? Mild irritation and some shock, at most. Her eyes went to the snow-covered, slanted roof above him. Mythal forgive her….  
Whether it was the giddiness of her nerves looking for an outlet, or some childlike instinct taking hold of her long-since disciplined attitude, she caved under the temptation of the opportunity.  
“Just drop that” She sighed, pulling her back. Sera looked as though she might cry out of both anger and the beginnings of a tantrum “And take an arrow, aim it at the roof of the blacksmiths, make sure it lands dead center.”  
All at once the girl’s eyes lit up as though she were given the keys to a kingdom. “I knew you’d be fun!” She whispered jovially, doing as she had instructed. She took the bow from where it was fastened at her back, notching an arrow. Etain held her breath, her heart beating wildly in her chest. She felt as though she were a child again, both exhilarated by the idea of breaking the rules, and somewhat terrified of the chastisement that might come if caught. It was all sorts of wrong.

The bow twanged. 

The arrow flew.

There was a dull thump.

Commander Cullen looked up a second too late. “What in the Makers na-“

A split second was all it took. One moment he was standing there, brow furrowed confusedly, the next he was gone, replaced by a pile of snow.   
Sera cackled and howled like a madwoman, bracing herself against the wall as she gasped for air. “Worth it…so…worth it!”  
Etain bit down hard on her own hand to stop herself from laughing aloud. Her chest was heaving, threatening to burst forth before she could stop the sound from escaping. Sera clapped her hard on the back, jerking her forward, and the laughter poured out like a waterfall. It sounded only vaguely familiar, that whooping sound of unbridled laughter. She was a different person the last time she heard it. Sera might have been a grating individual for the most part, but making her laugh without a care, that was a skill.   
Like a corpse rising from a grave, arms flailed about in the snow, then legs, and then at last he managed to find his way out of the snow pile. Their laughter ceased, and giddy panic set in. “Shitballs!” Sera swore, swatting her on the arm.  
Etain didn’t need to think twice, they ran, feet crunching in the snow, the sound of the Commander swearing loudly behind them forcing girlish giggles from both of them. Not a noise befitting a warrior, some part of her said in chastisement. She tried to ignore it. It would remind her of what she was trying to divert herself from. There were footsteps behind them, far enough not to see the pair of them ascend the slope, but getting closer. They rounded the corner, skidded down the slope until their feet touched the cobblestones of the street once more, and before she knew it, she was being hauled up a ladder, and pushed back onto the wooden planks of the platform next to her cabin. Sera dropped onto her stomach and they both lay perfectly still, chests rising and falling quietly. Footsteps skidded to a halt below. Etain silently rolled onto her side, peering down at the figure in the darkness. There stood Cullen, completely drenched by melted snow, his short hair flattened against his neck and forehead. It was longer than she'd originally thought.   
He shook his head like a dog fresh from a dive in a river, but his expression was still thunderous, with no source to berate for his current state. He turned and regarded the tavern with some unfounded suspicion. Sera nudged her and nodded towards the cabin door. If he wasn’t going to give up on his search, she needed to go somewhere less suspicious. “How did I think it wise to get involved in this?” She thought, coming back to her senses. She carefully and quickly descended the ladder and gently pushed the door open and pulled Sera inside. She bit her tongue when the Commander turned, attention drawn by the light coming from the doorway. “Herald Lavellan” he said, sounding surprised, but not at all suspicious. “I…I’m sorry if I disturbed you, I was looking for someone”  
“Oh?” She said through gritted teeth, wishing she’d shut the door faster. “Who exactly?”  
He ran his fingers through his sodden hair and sighed. “I have an inkling. Someone with a ridiculously childish sense of humour, and evidently an escape plan.”  
She frowned with feigned concern. “I hope you find them then, if they have done you wrong”  
“Mhm” he muttered, eyeing her suspiciously. “You didn’t hear anyone pass by?”  
Damn it, he was more perceptive than she gave him credit for it seemed. “I was sleeping, Commander.” She said dryly. “Upon your advice, and that of the war council. Do you truly think I have nothing better to do than keep my ears strained for suspicious activity. I believe you have guardsmen for that.”  
He checked at that, and his suspicions dissipated once more. “Apologies, Herald. I did not mean to imply anything. Forgive me.”  
She rolled her eyes and nodded. “Indeed. Good luck finding your culprit, Commander.”  
He nodded rather sheepishly and she quickly shut the door. When she turned, Sera was lying on the bed, kicking her feet back and forth in the air. “Nice guilt-tripping, oh wonderous shiny one!” She snorted.   
Etain was less impressed, suddenly regretting their little excursion somewhat, though she didn’t entirely know why. “I have a feeling that’s not the first time you’ve gone after him.”  
“Hey now, all I’ve done is little things, keep him on his toes and such” She flipped onto her belly and grinned. “I heard you gave him a pretty bruise for being a tosspot”  
Etain frowned deeply. “how did you know that?”  
“Little people!” She sang. “you hear things ‘round here, lots of rumours going around. Some soldiers said you broke some bones when they captured you, screamed down the dungeons when they said bad things too”  
She sighed, leaning against the wall. “When I was captured, yes”  
Sera’s smile diminished slightly. “Back when everyone thought you killed everyone else, yeah?”  
She nodded. “Yes.”  
“Well, piss on ‘em” She said frankly. “They’ve got to listen to you now, don’t they? You’ve got a shiny-shiny-make-sky-better mark now. Even if its weird as shit.”  
It wasn’t that simple. Nothing about the situation was simple, but she indulged her with a smile for trying to make good of it. “Maybe youre right”  
“Course I am” she said triumphantly. “And anyways, that bit with the snow was as much you as me. Now the big cat’s gone to lick his wet fur, you can remember that when he bugs you, right? Secret win!”  
Again, a situation not so simple, but a sweet attempt to fix something for someone who generally broke things. 

But even if it didn’t change things, it took away some of the fear.


	47. Return to the Temple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Etain stands with the Inquisition to close the breach for good.

Soldiers and mages began to assemble during the early hours of the day. Haven’s residents, all of them, new what was coming, what had to be done. The normal chatter of the day was replaced with silence. No one spoke above a whisper. Just the night before, some had been in the Taverns, or huddled around the fireside near the gates, chatting amongst themselves, trying to take their minds of what the next day would bring. Now however, the air was thick with tension that stifled the normal routine of the day. Mother Giselle held a sermon in the Chantry, where the faithful attended in the hopes of receiving a bolster of courage before the days end.  
Etain left them to their prayers. She instead went to the top of the hill, as she had done every morning when it had been permissible, to find peace within herself. It was difficult to drown out the world now, with a weight that lay heavily upon her shoulders. She could die, as she had almost done before. She was at peace with that fact. It was the idea of failure that plagued her thoughts. Should she falter, should she not succeed in closing the breach, it would spread and bring chaos just as the bleak future she had seen predicted. Having seen the result it would bring, she knew that faltering was not an option. Her breath slowed as she recited her calming incantation, and her body, after a time, began to feel lighter. She did not pray to sleeping Gods, for they would not be with her today as the Andrastians believed their Maker would be, but their lessons and tenants would stay within her mind.  
When she opened her eyes and took one last steady breath, she removed the glove from her hand and gazed at the glow in her palm. No closer to understanding its origins, she hoped above all things that today at least, it would act as a part of her, a weapon of good. After that, perhaps she need never use it again. Even if it destroyed her in the process, it would be a good death. It would save her people. It would save these people too. The thought was a lot to take in.  
She returned to her cabin. Her armour was already laid out carefully on the bed. Piece by piece, she dressed herself, wishing now that she had a helmet to conceal her face. At least then, any sign of doubt upon her face might not be so evident. It could not be afforded. All eyes were on her.  
As it had been when she first awoke after stabilizing the breach, everyone stood silently in the streets, watching with wide eyes. There was less fear in those eyes now, but there was a great deal of expectance. She did her best to ignore them.  
“Maker be with you, Herald” someone said quietly behind her, and some of the chantry sisters dropped small, white flowers at her feet.  
Outside the gates, a unit of soldiers stood to one side in neat formation, and mages on the other. She walked the space between them, her head held high. The war council stood by the assembled soldiers, with her travelling companions behind them. She looked at none of them. What words were needed had already been said. She knew the plan, as did they. With a high-pitched whistle, she summoned Asfaloth from the treescape. She had saddled him earlier in the morning, and painted his antlers with looping spirals. He looked truly magnificent. Once he lowered himself to the ground, she mounted and turned her gaze to the sky. Behind her, Cullen gave orders to his men, and they fell into formation behind her, and then the mages. She did not look back, but she felt them, standing, waiting. For her.  
She gave Asfaloth a gentle nudge with her heels, winding her fingers into his thick mane. She felt the tension in his flanks, and knew he wanted to gallop. The sound of soldiers behind him was making him wary. She took a deep breath and patted his neck. “Hamin, Lethalin” She whispered soothingly.  
She remembered the route from last time she had ascended the mountain path. They ascended slowly, the formation behind her a silent procession. It had been a while since she had been so close to the threat looming above her. Her eyes never left it.  
Everything was as she remembered. Charred corpses kneeling amongst rubble and…Red Lyrium nodes. She swallowed, the smell of it stung her nostrils, mixed with the stifling air surrounding the area, and made her chest feel tight.  
Asfaloth tossed his head once or twice, keeping his head low. Once they reached the walls of the temple, Etain dismounted, touching her forehead to the worrying Hart. “I must do this” She whispered, rubbing her forehead against his wide snout. “You stay here now, I must go and put an end to this”  
His big dark eyes gazed sadly into hers, but his tongue washed her cheek in spittle, as reassuring a gesture as she could hope for. She wiped it off, and gave him a weak smile. Then, reluctantly, she turned to the war council. They watched her with concerned faces. “The best of the mages are ready. Be certain you are ready, Herald” Cullen said. “We cannot know how you will be affected.”  
Etain nodded silently. She was well aware of that. While he had his men would stay behind, she and the mages, along with Solas and Cassandra, would go to the apex of the breach’s energy.  
And so she walked, with Solas at her side, speaking words of encouragement she barely heard above the beating of her own heart. She stood beneath the breach, staring up at it, feeling the incorporeal energy wash around her like gentle, heavy waves. The mages took up positions behind her. 

The light in her hand crackled to life almost by thought alone. It felt its obligation. “Feel your purpose” she urged it within her mind. “Whatever it was intended to be. Whatever brought you to me, this is your purpose now”

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Cassandra waited for the Herald’s signal to begin. She watched the young woman intently, and saw the determination set in her features. Whatever she had done until now would pale in comparison to what stood before her. 

The elf had spoken hardly a word all day. She did not blame her for that. She wore a serene look upon her face given the circumstances. It was clear that she had made peace with the idea of death, just as she had the last time she stood here. This time she hoped, she prayed, it would not come to that. The mages had spent the night preparing, and Solas had given all the advice that he could. With luck, with blessing, with skill and preparation, the threat of the breach could end at last.

“Now is the time” Herald Lavellan said, barely above a whisper. Her eyes were raised to the breach. Cassandra’s eyes fell to her hand. The glow was beginning to spread. Did it react to the closeness of the breach, or was this the will of its master that made it grow? 

Cassandra nodded, turning her attention to the assembly behind her. “Mages!” She cried, and they stood to attention at her behest.  
Solas stood beside her now, and raised his staff above his head. “Focus past the Herald” He called out to them loudly. “Let her will draw from you!”

She reeled around, and saw the burst of light come forth as the Herald formed the connection between the mark and the Breach above. She felt its power, deep and foreboding, surrounding them now like a storm ready to burst forth a torrent of rain upon the unsuspecting land below. The sky churned rebelliously, thunder loud as a dragons roar. The mages raised their staves into the air in unison, and brought them down hard against the shattered ground. There they knelt, focused on exerting all the strength of their magic into the Herald’s efforts.

The world seemed to hold its breath in unison. 

Cassandra watched in shock, her heart racing and surging beneath the weight of the air, so filled with magic now from mages and the breach alike that it was almost painful. The Heralds arm dropped low as she struggled against the magical barrier of swirling verdant light. She staggered against it as it threatened to overwhelm her. She was whispering something, Cassandra could just about hear it, something foreign in words that came out as barely more than gasps. Was she faltering?  
Cassandra looked around desperately. Solas knelt with the mages, his eyes shut tightly as he willed his energy forward. The air pulsed with their combined effort, but the Herald’s mark was growing and shrinking, and still not pushing back.  
What was going wrong? Everything seemed deadlocked in the moment. Mages behind her groaned under the strain. The Herald grit her teeth together, her face a snarl of determination, brow tinged with sweat from her noble effort.

And then it happened.

As if all the mana of every mage had surged into her being, the Herald raised her hand with a roar of defiance, and the mark exploded with light. The barriers that protected the great rift burned away in the wake of its power, launched upwards like a guided arrow. Cassandra watched in reverence as it tore through the thundering breach. Suddenly, there was nothing but light, and a great force of backlashed magic that knocked everyone in the temple backwards in the wake of its strength. 

Silence came, and remained for some time.

Cassandra lay on her back, her vision blurred, blinded by the light. For a moment, she could not recall what had happened. And then it came back to her, and she was scrambling, disoriented, to her feet. Others were beginning to rise, but she pushed past them all, her heart still racing with panic. 

The Herald, where was the Herald?

“Out of my way!” she snapped at the mages who wandered aimlessly in her path. 

She was afraid, she realized. What if the Herald had…

There she knelt, her shoulders slumped and heaving, her mark still alive with power. Cassandra, still trying to focus her vision, reached out to her with a trembling hand.

The Herald raised her head slowly. Her hair had come loose from its binding, and now it wreathed her face, obscuring it from her concerned scrutiny. “It is done” she said, her voice low and weary. She never looked at the sky, but she knew. Perhaps she felt it.

Cassandra exhaled at last.

Slowly, the elf rose, straightening her shoulders, and turning to face them all. Her face, no longer hidden from view, was weary, but calm. At the sight of her rising, the mages raised their voices to the sky and let out a cheer, and beyond the broken walls of the temple, it was joined by the soldiers on the other side. Cassandra joined them too, awash with pure relief and exaltation. 

The Herald walked through the crowd, her expression blank, but her eyes betraying the relief within. Cassandra thought to go to her, voice her appreciation perhaps, but thought better of it. There would be time for that later, she was sure of it. For now, she simply allowed herself to shed the tension she had carried since the day the Breach first came to life. There would be so much to do, but no matter what, the Inquisition had just now shown the world that it was capable of all that it had promised, and they would have everything to play for.


	48. Farewell to a wild thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen discovers Etain's intentions following the closing of the breach.

Beyond the mountain peaks, the sickly glow of the breach began to retreat as the dark of night conquered the sky in its blackness. Though some residual evidence of its place there remained, the thunder had ceased and the clouds were slowly beginning to part. Perhaps in time, it would finally disappear for good. Perhaps at last, the world could begin to heal. 

Haven was alive with revelry and elation, its residents singing their joy and exultation together as one. Mages, soldiers, Templars and civilians celebrated as one, unhindered by title or position as they danced beneath the slowly recovering sky. It was a cold night, but none seemed to feel it. It was an endearing sight.

Cullen wished he could feel such exultation. He was relieved that the plan had worked, yet his thoughts were for the future. The Inquisition had fulfilled its promise to the rest of Thedas. There would undoubtedly be support pouring in from Orlais and Ferelden for their effort. But where allies would come, so would enemies. The only question was when, but he intended to be prepared when that day came at last. 

He found the Herald standing by the scouts’ tent, looking down at the crowd of joyous villagers and soldiers. She leaned against a post, the soft glow of her violet eyes illuminating her features. She did not look up when he approached. Her eyes looked…distant, almost sad. For whatever tumultuous issues that had transpire between them over the past few months, he could not doubt that what she had done was beyond anything that had been expected. Unconventional methods and skills aside, her actions were commendable. He knew he ought to convey that.  
“Herald Lavellan” He said, clearing his throat.  
She turned her head, snapped from her thoughts, and blinked. “Commander”  
“I wanted to thank you for…” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “For what you’ve done for the Inquisition.”  
“You should not thank me” she said flatly. “This was the effort of this Inquisition. I only leant it a weapon for its purpose.”  
Something seemed amiss about her when she said it. Never our inquisition, or our efforts. She distanced herself at every opportunity from her association with their cause, he realized belatedly.  
Suddenly he was very much aware of just how little he knew about this woman standing before him. Dozens of reports on her activity showed no more than her skill in combat. In the time she had been here, she had asked him questions, but never spoke of her own life. She had shown her distrust of him, but he never knew the true cause. Hell, he had barely spoken to her apart from chastising her for her behavior. 

Then he realized what was happening. No name given, no ties solidified to anyone, no affiliation. She had sworn to aid in closing the breach. And now, it was closed. 

“What do you intend to do now?” he asked warily, already knowing the answer.

She narrowed her eyes, and seemed to realize there was little point to hiding anything now. “My use is expended.” She said in a low voice. “This is your arena, Commander. I must return to mine.”

Hearing it spoken so plainly stung. “So its true” he said, with more bitterness than he had intended. “You do intend to leave.”

Wordlessly, she nodded. 

He could not believe what he was hearing, even though he had anticipated it. “The Inquisition has harboured you, kept you safe from those that would proclaim themselves your enemy” he whispered, wary of being overheard. “You walk away now, you lose that privilege. We cannot protect you from those that would do you harm if you do not stand with us!”

She stood silently, taking in his words, her expression blank, unmoving. “I never asked for your inquisitions protection” she said coldly. “I never asked for any of this. I have given what I can to your Inquisition, nonetheless. It was your nightingale who said I was free to go when I wished.”

Dumbfounded, he found himself growing frustrated for reasons he could not exactly grasp. Her logic, in some strange manner, made sense. Her mark was what closed the breach, the title she received from having such a responsibility raised the inquisition, and her, to a good foundation. She had been their prisoner once, labeled by all as a murderer. Time might go on, and people might forget her redemption, as people often did throughout history. Perhaps that is what she envisioned as the future.

And yet, did she feel no such loyalty to their cause as others had come to? As he had come to? It seemed impossible to look upon all that the Inquisition had built itself upon and not find the spark that would ignite a flame of pride to be a part of it. That, he realized, was what bothered him the most. She closed the breach, and had done so it seemed less for Thedas, and moreso for her own interests. 

“So that is it then? That is to be your choice? Herald Lavellan” he said challengingly. “You must surely recognize that owe a great deal to the inquisition for all that it has-“

“Commander Cullen” she growled, low and threatening, her eyes fierce with inner fire. “Allow me to make this a simple resolution. There are only two options; I walk now from Haven and depart, freed of my obligation, to return to my people, or, you mean to detain me by means of force”

Before he knew it, she was inches from him, her fingers resting preparedly upon the hilt of her blade. Her height might have made it quite an amusing stand-off, for he was more than a head taller than her, but her eyes were deep and full of warning. But her voice quivered, whether through the determination in her words, or something else that resembled…worry? “And if the latter is to be the option, I would severely warn against it. “

 

She would not remain of her own free will,that much was certain. Nor would he force her too. Standing before him was not a soldier instilled with the pride of service, he realized. She was a creature trapped in a world that was not her own, a wild thing to whom walls and armies were unnatural.

A wild thing that could not be tamed to live comfortably by the laws of human kind, perhaps.

Against his better judgment, he stepped aside. “Should you wish to go” he said, rather defeatedly. “I wont stop you. It is, after all, your choice….not mine.”

She blinked, surprised, shocked even. Stepping back, she released her grip on the unsheathed sword at her hip. Her eyes were wary, searching, questioning. And then, suddenly, as if carried off by the wind, she disappeared past him and was gone, leaving him standing in cold silence. 

Cullen stood there a while, mystified, filled with mixed feelings about what had just transpired. The woman who the world named as “Herald of Andraste”, the elf who had practically fallen from the broken sky, spat in his face for his accusations, rendered him paralyzed simply to make a point, dazed him with the frankness of her words, and ultimately, saved them all from the threat of the breach…was suddenly gone. It had only been a few months, and as he had earlier realized, he knew so little of her, yet he could admit now to himself, that he wished that were not the case. 

Slowly he walked the streets and went to the gates. Everyone else was inside, relishing in their victory. It was quiet here, and he was glad of it. He breathed in the cold air, looking out at the glimmering expanse of the frozen lake. There were hoofprints in the snow, too wide to belong to a horse, leading towards the western bridge. 

He snorted half-heartedly, folding his arms across his chest. “Ride far from here, wild thing” he mused aloud. “Ride away and forget all you’ve seen. I’d imagine we shall not meet again.”

His eyes went to the mountain pass beyond the lake. Something caught his eye, far away in the distance. A flicker of light, there for but a moment, and then gone again. 

He frowned. Perhaps one of Lelianas scouts, or a pilgrim seeking shelter. Either way, he did not think much upon it. He stayed a while outside the gates, taking in the brisk night air. Eventually he returned to rejoin his men by the fire. Come the morn, there would be questions, and he supposed he should clarify what the response was to be when people realized the herald had left in the night. 

The celebrations continued for a few hours more, but by then the war council were already returning to their works, planning the next step.

Two hours after the Herald had left, the bells of Havens Chantry peeled out a warning toll, and the mountains were suddenly filled with fire.


	49. Haven's last stand - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haven falls under attack from an unexpected enemy, and Cullen leads his men against impossible odds.

The wind shrieked like a wounded beast.

Etain gripped her Hart’s mane tightly, her jaw set tightly against the snow that whipped across her face. Her ears twitched, alerted to a noise that was almost as unnatural as the sudden change in the weather. She had been two hours gone from the village now, riding off the path where she would draw no attention. She had waited with great anticipation for this moment to come, the moment in which she would be able to ride back to her clan and put the events of the past months behind her. She missed it all; her clansmen, familiar and trusted, the Halla herds, the aravels, the songs that mingled with the ambiance of the outdoors. Her heart ached for it…

So why was it so hard to return to it now?

That was her life, her real life. Everything that had transpired while she was away from it was just a necessary measure to ensure that her clan did not fall to the breach’s destruction. Why then, did she feel such guilt when she thought upon what she was leaving behind? The Inquisition would do well for itself now, and grow in reputation and renown. They would find a worthy Inquisitor to lead them, and create history with their actions no doubt. She had no need to be a part of that. Her life was for her people. They were all that mattered. 

The wind picked up, growing more violent in its keening. The cold didn’t bother her, but the sounds it carried did. Was it…drum beats she heard? And voices. Yes, there were definitely voices. Her eyes were determinedly focused ahead, but her ears were straining to hear what was behind her. Haven was not the source of the sound….

No, but it was heading in the direction of Haven, and it was not the beating of drums. 

It was the sound of marching. 

Etain pulled Asfaloth to a stuttered halt. “Don’t look back” she said in her mind, over and over again. “Look back now, and you’ll be lost.”

It wasn’t her fight. Her part was done. Perhaps it wasn’t a fight at all. An arriving force, and ally even. It was entirely possible. But it was pointless to deny it. She caught the scent of burning torches.

No. it was more. The scent was familiar, sickeningly familiar.

Her heart wrenched. 

Lyrium. Blood and Lyrium. 

To be able to catch that scent in the air meant numbers. Huge numbers. 

Her chest tightened even further. She could press on, she was far enough away to do so. 

“Look back now and you’ll be lost” she whispered again, her hands trembling where they tangled into Asfaloth’s mane. 

A storm was coming. A deadly storm. And it was heading straight for the Inquisition. 

Her heel made contact with Asfaloth’s flank. He wheeled around, and then, she beheld the source of her fears. 

Hundreds of shapes marched through the mountain pass in the distance, each and every one bearing torches as they made their way down the valley. Haven was beyond that valley. 

Steed and rider were suddenly surging forwards, scattering snow in their wake. There was no thought, no pause for decision. There was only instinct, and instinct was telling her to go back, even if her heart was fighting against it. 

 

It was madness.

The bells rang out across Haven, a harsh, terrible sound for what they meant. Those that had been lost in revelry now looked up at the mountain valley beyond the gates, and their joy turned to frenzy in a heartbeat. 

The valley was filled with fire, so large only because it was comprised of so many smaller flames. Torches, carried by shapes in the darkness. 

Only one scout had made it back from his post up there. The captain stationed at the watchtower had told him to run, and the young man had staggered through the gates, barely able to draw breath for the speed and distance he had run. His comrades were dead. He heard their dying cries as he made his escape, when arrows reigned down on his fellow soldiers and overwhelmed them all in a matter of seconds. 

Cullen felt his blood run cold. The scout recounted what he had seen as briefly as he could, and when he had finished, the alarm was raised. The chantry bells were ringing deafeningly in his ears when he began to rally his men, desperate to bring some sense of formation to those who blindly ran screaming in their fear. 

Just like Kirkwall. The sense of foreboding, knowing that something was approaching that meant to destroy without conscience. The Qunari invasion, when the streets were filled with blood and chaos, when the dead littered the street, innocent people. And the mage uprising….maker, he could feel the vividness of the memory as it clawed its way out from the recesses of his mind. 

Suddenly he was running, wheeling around to take stock of his surroundings. There was panic everywhere. Villagers ran in every direction, like sheep frightened by an approaching wolf. It was the worst thing they could do when forces were approaching. He needed his men to maintain order until he learned more of what exactly was happening. “Forces approaching” he cried out. “To arms!”

What force could possibly be so large, and for what purpose had they come? 

 

Action in the wake of chaos was natural instinct to him now. The soldiers at least showed less panic than the villagers, and reacted swiftly to his commands, herding people to safety and running for the gates. If they were to have a chance, everyone needed to be inside. Haven was not defensible against an oncoming force. They had known that from the beginning. It was supposed to be a temporary refuge. They were supposed to find a more defensible location when the time was right. There wasn’t supposed to be any hostile action yet, not that they wouldn’t have known of. His mind worked furiously through the situation. How had they come in such force without anyone knowing? It was impossible. It should have been impossible.  
Cassandra appeared at his side as he urged his men to begin barring the gates. “Cullen?”  
Leliana and Josephine were with her. Her sword was already drawn in anticipation. They had only minutes before those forces were on their doorstep.   
“One scout reporting. It’s a massive force, the bulk over the mountain” he rifled off, his voice entirely deadpan.   
Josephine was pale, her eyes wide with fear and confusion. “under what banner?”  
“None” he said, voice drained of all emotion.   
“None?”   
He didn’t know what else to say. He could hear them, their numbers were drawing close. Just outside the gates. It would not take them long to breach their defenses. His hand went to his sword, ready to face whatever was on the other side. 

Something struck the gates with enough force to rattle them. Lights flashed beneath the wood, and he heard the steel clashing of swords. Were there men left on the other side that hadn’t made it through before it was barred?

Another loud bang as the gate was struck again. “I can’t come in unless you open!”

His soldiers looked to him expectantly, awaiting an order. Could he risk it? What if it was a ruse? It definitely wasn’t one of his soldiers, he realized. He’d never heard that voice before. 

Cassandra seized control of the moment and went to the gate, gesturing to the soldiers to remove the heavy wooden block that secured it. Together with two of his men, she pushed it open.

Bodies were strewn across the floor, at least six of them. Templars. How had they ended up out here? The Templars should have been with the soldiers, assisting with escorting civilians back to the chantry. In the centre of the corpses, a huge, armour-clad beast of a man stood, his face obscured by the visor of his sharp, pointed helm. He was lurching towards them, staggering even, but the cleaver in his hand could rip apart a score of men without issue.   
He was about to give the order to engage, when the huge creature let out a pained groan, and fell to the ground, blood trickling from the holes in the visor.   
Behind him, a young man stood with a knife in his hand. His clothes were worn and patched poorly with different materials, and his pale face was overshadowed by a large, wide-brimmed hat. He was a slight thing, so thin he looked almost malnourished. And he was covered in blood.   
Cullen rushed forward, Cassandra and his men at his back. He looked at the boy, and then at the bodies surrounding him. Cassandra was staring down at them too. But he was most interested in who this boy, and whether or not he was a threat to them. His sword was raised, in case of any sudden movements.   
“I’m Cole” the boy said before any assumptions could be made. “I came to warn you. To help. People are coming to hurt you. You already know.”  
“What is this? What are you on about?” Cullen demanded, stepping towards him.  
The boy backed away fearfully, his head low. “The Templars come to kill the Herald.”  
The bodies on the floor. They weren’t his Templars. Cullen could not believe it. “Templars?” he exclaimed furiously. “Is this the orders response to our talks with the mages? Attacking blindly?”  
He’d known they were losing their way. That was one of the reasons he left, before they had seceded from the chantry. But this….this was unthinkable. This was beyond reason. This was anarchy. And the Herald…they had come to kill her? She was not long gone, and what if…  
“The Red Templars went to the elder one. You know him? He knows you” the pale boy rambled, pacing back and forth, unable to stand still. “She took his mages”  
Cole raised his head, his face full of fear. Something was strange about him. Something…wrong. But that was not what concerned him, so much as what he was looking up at. The boy raised his arm, pointing with a pale, bony finger at the nearest peak beyond the frozen lake. 

Cullen felt his heart cease to beat when he saw it. A face from his past that he’d never thought to see again. The last time he’d seen that man, he had been stripped of his rank and the right to don his armour. A good man who had lost his way, that’s what Cullen remembered him as. Now he stood, gazing down at the village of Haven. His sword glinted in the light of the torches below. 

Samson. And he was not alone. That which stood beside him was no man nor demon. He was something else entirely. The Elder One. 

“I know that man…” he said, barely above a whisper. “ ….but this Elder one…”

“He’s very angry she took his mages” the boy said forebodingly.

“Cullen, we need a plan. We need something! Anything!” Cassandra said frantically. Her eyes were wide as she beheld the forces of Templars making their approach.

“The Herald is gone!” He snapped angrily at the pale face boy before him. “Even if he raises this village to the ground. He wont find what he wants!”

He was at his wit’s end. Samson leading the battle against the Inquisition. A full scale retaliation from the Elder One, and the Inquisition was barely prepared for a real fight. He had to think. He had to find a way to even the odds and give his men a fighting chance. Even if it was only long enough to get everyone else to safety…

Cole peered up at him from beneath the brim of his hat. “Mountains that smell of fire, blood and lyrium. Riding hard against the wind, not away but around. Too familiar, knowing how the story ends.”

Cullen stared angrily at the boy. He was quite possibly mad, but he was the least of his concerns. Now he could see them, the first wave of men he might have once called his brothers. And there was something very, very wrong with them. No longer obscured by the shadows of the valley, he saw what they truly were, and suddenly his hands were trembling.   
Jagged spikes of red stuck out from their bodies, glimmering against the light of their torches. His mind flashed back to Kirkwall again, and this time it was Meredith he saw, screaming as her skin turned red and solid before she fell to her knees and ceased to be a living thing.

By all that was holy. What had they done to themselves? What had Samson done to them? 

He ignored the boy and his maddening, cryptic words. He swerved around to Cassandra and his men. He was relieved and surprised to see that they had already formed a battle line, swords drawn, waiting for his command. Bull and some of his chargers made their way down from the gate to join them, as did Varric , Blackwall, and Dorian. The mages stood with them, although their eyes were alive with fear. He could have laughed in his desperation at the irony of the situation; to be standing with them, facing the order he once swore his vows to. “No” he reminded himself adamantly. “ I swore my vows to the chantry, to the people, to protect them always. I will uphold those vows, even if they will not. Even if Samson will not. “

With half of his troops still evacuating people to safety, including the few Templars loyal to the Inquisition, their numbers would likely not hold against theirs. Their first wave was approaching the southwestern bridge. They would be upon them soon. He knew this tactic’s purpose; to pick off their numbers slowly, so that the village would have less defenders. He wouldn’t allow it. 

Cold sweat was forming on his brow. He cast a quick glance around him, at what supplies they could use to their advantage. Trebuchets. They had trebuchets. If they had time, they could be turned on the forces still descending from the valley.   
If he could send men to load them, it could work. Both were on opposing sides of the perimeter. He could send soldiers to the southernmost one, and fire at those still coming down behind.   
It was all they could do. Either way, this day would not end without Inquisition blood being spilled. 

“Haven is no fortress” he said to Cassandra. “If we are to withstand this monster, we must control this battle.”

Templars were marching down the path to their left. He hastily briefed Cassandra on the plan, and she quickly gathered a force to defend the southern trebuchet while it was loaded. 

Suddenly, before he could turn his men to the forces approaching from the other side, he glanced back, and realized that already he had been outwitted. More had made their way towards the southern bridge, a hidden force that had split from the others. His heart dropped. Now they were truly outnumbered. 

Cursing under his breath, he ordered more men to defend alongside the Seeker, and then turned his attention to the mages amongst his forces. 

“Mages! You- You have full sanction to engage them!” With a snarl of frustration, he pointed his sword at the hill above. “That is Samson! He will not make it easy!”

High above from his perch on the hill, Samson was watching. Cullen felt a seething hatred rising within him as he looked up at him. Had the man no conscience, to corrupt the order of Templars and lead them to slaughter the innocent? 

Without hesitation, the mages prepared their wards, shielding themselves and his soldiers in a shimmering barrier of protection. It would only hold for so long, he thought miserably. The Templars, even using this corrupted strain of Lyrium, would be just as powerful, if not moreso. 

He lead the charge, shield and sword at the ready, and all at once, spell and steel rang out as they clashed. The first of the Templars gave them no quarter as they barreled into their lines. Up close, they were even more terrifying. They barely even showed signs of humanity, but they were strong, unnaturally strong. His numbers struggled to maintain a solid line, and soon, his men were starting to fall. He fought with all the strength he could muster, the Templar in front of him slashing at his shield, evidence of his own training clashing against his. His blows were strong, and he was immensely glad he had taken his helmet when the alarm was raised. The Templar bellowed out in fury, but one wrong step, and Cullen struck him when his arm was raised, piercing through a vulnerable spot behind the steel and reaching his heart. The smell of his blood as it poured from the wound made him want to wretch. 

The Inquisition forces were being pushed back, no matter how hard they tried to hold their line. The mages at their back fired out volleys of spells, but the more lucid Templars were dampening the strength of their magic.   
Cullen took an opportunity to glance back while he was not engaged, and realized with horror that Cassandra’s forces had been retreating backwards as well. The gate guard had shut the gate while they attempted to drive them back, but some of the Templars from the south were branching off while they were trapped in combat. The Iron bull was roaring out defiantly as he cleaved through their frontline, but for every man he cut down, another was there to take his place. 

It cannot end this way, he thought distantly, not when we have barely begun…

Templars were already slamming the gates, unchallenged while the Inquisitions forces were boxed in by the chaos around them. Some of the mages managed to pick off a few of their numbers, but it was not enough. 

What hope was there now? Samson’s forces were still pouring over the mountain, and his first wave was already weakening their dwindling numbers. They would die here, a last stand against the army of the Elder One, and he would move on across Thedas. He would bring the dark future to pass. 

The world would burn.

 

“HALAM SAHLIN!!!!”

The words cut across the sound of conflict like a hot knife through butter. Cullen reeled around, parrying blows with his shield, searching for the source of the battlecry. 

His heart skipped a beat. 

A shape emerged through the smoke of the burning trees in the south, small at first, and then it grew larger, and suddenly, there galloped a stag, ramming its way through the Templars on the southern bridge. They had not seen it, and with no time to brace themselves, the stag was lifting them high into the air and tossing them out of his path. The bridge was cleared in a matter of seconds. The stag swerved to the right, urged on by its rider, who stood upright in the saddle with bow in hand. Arrows flew through the air in rapid succession, and the Templars at the gate fell one by one. 

The Herald of Andraste had returned. 

With the attention of the Templar forces diverted for a split second, they had their chance. Inspired by the Heralds sudden return, their forces summoned all the strength they could muster, and through sheer force of will, they began to drive them back. 

No longer boxed in by numbers, their lines were reforming. Cullen watched in awe as the Herald vaulted from the saddle, over her steeds massive antlers, and rolled gracefully to the ground. Closer now, he saw her eyes were filled with unbridled fury. The stag did not leave her. The two fought as one, fearless and terrifying. The stag shielded her from blows, his antlers a protective shield against the heavy strikes of the Templars around her. She let loose her arrows with ultimate efficiency, steady and true to their marks, and when her quiver was empty, the bow was replaced by a blade. 

“Inquisition!” He cried out, blade raised high in the air. “With the Herald! For your lives! For all of us!”

She looked tiny in comparison to the opposition, but she lashed out with no fear, controlled, precise and deadly. When one would press an attack, he heard her roaring fiercely as she ran at them.  
For a while he lost sight of her as he defended himself at those around him, until suddenly, in the middle of the battle, they were thrown together, side by side as they pressed on. “I thought you had left us?” he said, exasperatedly.   
She whirled around to his back, parrying a blow that he had not seen coming while he was engaged at his front.   
Her stag launched himself at another Templar at his side, efficient as a close range ballista. He realized she was commanding him, for prior to each attack, her tongue clicked, barely audible above the sound of battle. She split her focus between her own tactics and his. 

Finally, the first wave was taken down, the ground littered with the bodies of the fallen. He could take solace in the fact that most of them were not his men. He hastily ordered his men back into the confines of the village, and with a moment to catch his breath, he turned his attention to the Herald. Her face and armour were spattered with blood. He was still shocked at her arrival, so sure he would never see her again. In truth, he was relieved that was not the case.   
“Commander, what is your plan?” she said hastily. Her eyes were focused on the dead Templars littering the ground.   
There would be time to show thanks later, if they survived this fight. Catching his breath, he gestured towards the trebuchet in the southwestern corner. “Their numbers are too large for us to fight back.” He explained quickly. “We can turn the trebuchets on them. Aimed towards the mountain, we can trigger an avalanche that can bury them and give us better odds.”  
She considered the plan and nodded. “there isn’t much time”  
“No, there isn’t” He said honestly. “Herald, we still may stand a chance if we can eliminate some of their numbers before they reach us.”  
She looked at him with those large, violet eyes, and slowly, she nodded. “I will do what I can.”

Dorian, Varric, Blackwall and Bull pushed their way through the remaining soldiers. The Herald regarded them with a smile that did not meet her eyes. Without a word, they were running, seizing their opportunity while the Templars were still advancing up ahead. 

Cassandra ushered soldiers through the gate and looked back at them. “She returned when she could have run” she breathed. “Perhaps Andraste guides her after all.”

While their enemies marched down the mountain path, while Samson looked on from his perch in the hills, while the elder one urged his corrupted Templars on, Cullen could not believe that the Maker nor Andraste were with them. Even if that were so, he would still will himself to fight on until his dying breath.


	50. Haven's last stand - Part 2(Finale)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Etain makes her final stand.

She remembered their coming. They brought fire and death in their wake. It did not matter who stood before them, they would cut down any who stood in their way. They were creatures of war, bred for destruction no matter who held their chains.

Now the nightmare was returning, and somehow, it was worse. They were stronger than those she had faced in the past, and that alone was cause for worry.

Already it felt like she had fought an entire battle. Yet looming above, those creatures were skittering down the valley like ants from a nest. Less a legion than a swarm. She had rode as hard as she could to get back before the situation worsened, and thrown all her efforts into delivering a vicious assault to the Templars who pressed the gate, and they were only the first wave. More would come, so many more, if they could not eliminate their numbers in time. Cullen’s men were at her back, and so were her travelling companions. She was glad at least that there were no questions from them regarding her impromptu arrival. Time permitted nothing but battle now. 

The southwestern trebuchet was attended by four soldiers, all of which were occupied by its mechanisms. It would take time to load it, and aim it correctly. Forces of Templars were already bearing down upon them, burning everything in their wake. She and the others spread out around the busy soldiers. They were not far from the gates, but forces were beginning an approach from the south again, and their time was limited even further with the knowledge that they would make another attempt at breaching the gate. 

One of their unit was bearing down upon her with an ungainly bellow of fury. He lashed out with shield and sword, but where he was strong, she was fast. Their swords clashed together, a strong blow to either side. But it was her blade of ironbark that triumphed over his enchanted steel. She had trained for so long, pushed herself so hard beyond her own limits, just to fight enemies like these. What she lacked in equaling strength, she made up for with stamina and agility. His blows were crude and ungainly where hers were fast and efficient. The moment he lifted his chin, just enough that the flesh of his neck was exposed, her sword flashed and severed head from shoulders. He fell to the floor, a guttural cry of pain echoing inside his helm. Footsoldiers were a simple enough task, and thankfully they were the bulk of the force. 

It was the tower shield bearers that would give her issue, but they were fewer in number and better left to Iron Bull. She focused her attentions on the archers at their back once they were distracted in combat. Behind her, the trebuchet fired out its first round, a great weighted boulder previously cut from the hills. She saw it hurdle through the sky, and drive right into the middle of the oncoming legion. 

It was not enough. They needed the mountain to come down upon them, but this trebuchet was not situated in the right area to land its mark. Both should have been deployed at the same time. Something was wrong. Once the soldiers gave the all clear, safe for now while they had bought them time, they urged them to return to see what the issue was. Etain whistled sharply for Asfaloth, and he came to her at once. She swung herself into the saddle and urged him forward.  
She was fast growing afraid for his safety. Already his antlers had taken a battering from unfettered blows. But he was her beast. He stood with her, and they fought together as one.   
She lead the charge on the forces pressing the eastern trebuchet. The soldiers there were experiencing difficulties, their attentions drawn to their own defense. There were more of them here, and even more on the approach. Asfaloth bore down upon them ferociously, his thick lips pulled back into a defiant snarl as he trampled footsoldiers underfoot. He lowered his head and lifted two of them from the ground, tangled and flailing in his antlers, and Etain ended them quickly with a singular cleave, swiftly taking their heads. She vaulted from his back and took the fight to even ground against a pair of shield bearers. They managed to divert her attention long enough for her to miss the sound of the arrow that came from behind. By pure luck, it did not pierce her side, but the force of it thumping against her armoured back jolted her forwards, and it was painful. Roaring loudly, she snapped it in half where it remained, jutting out from her armour, and with both Templars before her dealt with, she ran at the archer, her sword temporarily forgotten, lunging at him and knocking the bow from his hand. Her feet made contact with his chest and sent him hurdling to the floor. His neck snapped cleanly beneath her grip before he made contact with the ground. That was enough of a demoralizing lesson for his fellow archers. 

There was a reason her people were called vicious savages by these kinds of men. Fear was as much a weapon as a sword, and the Dalish used it to their advantage. Etain was glad to avail of it. She picked her sword out of the snow and pressed on, lashing at the archers until they fell. The soldiers that had been attening the trebuchet had fallen, slain by the Templars that had come up from behind. While the others dealt with what forces remained as a threat, she darted for the mechanism, assessing it quickly for the nature of its operation. Fully loaded, she noted, but needed to fire. She saw the lever jammed with a piece of metal, and quickly realized that it was all that kept the thing from deploying its weight. She kicked it hard with her foot, and watched with relief as the mechanical cogs sprug to life, the rope at its front pulling it forwards with a sudden burst, and then its ammunition was careering towards the mountainside. 

It landed with earth-shattering force against the mountainside, and suddenly, the entire mass of the mountain seemed to shift, shedding itself of the snow settled at its side. Etain watched with wide, hungry eyes, as the lights in the valley were extinguished, and the cries of the masses were muffled by the avalanche that buried them alive. Good, she thought, that is all you deserve.   
The soldiers around her cheered, and Varric clapped her hard on the back for her victory. They had done it. What remained of those forces could be picked of. The tides had finally turned. A cold rush of air flowed down from the valley. Etain breathed it in and relished in its sweetness, knowing hundreds of enemies were struggling for breath in their graves. 

And then she saw it.

A huge stream of fire burst through the clouds above, followed by a deafening screech. Etain could only numbly shake her head as black, leathery wings darkened the sky. She was moving back. Everyone was moving back, as they took in the sight of the dragon that emerged from above. 

And then they were running, throwing themselves forward as the blast hit the trebuchet with full force, sending shattered wood and fiery rubble in every direction. Etain rolled to one side and narrowly avoided a flaming plank of wood. She sprang to her feet quickly and called out to the others. They had to retreat. An army at least could have been engaged. A dragon in flight changed everything.  
Haven was primarily comprised of wooden structures. 

 

it would be no more than kindling to that beast.

Etain watched hopelessly as the dragon reigned fire upon Haven, and the village was suddenly alight and alive with the sound of terrified screams. There had to be a plan. Someone had to have a plan. She rallied the others and grabbed hold of Asfaloths mane to calm him as he bleated out in a frenzy at the sight above. Urging the others ahead, she caught sight of Dennet, frantically loosing his horses from the confines of the stables. She paused, hesitant, looking up at the sky, at the dragon, at the village. The others went on ahead.   
“Dennet!” she cried out, and the horsemaster wheeled around to look at her. “Where are you sending the horses?”  
He shook his head confusedly and gestured to the east. “To the hills behind Haven, better chance of them not getting plucked from the ground. That bloody thing wont have my beasts for his supper!”  
She nodded in acknowledgement. Asfaloth was an easy target to something so big. She knew she could not protect him at her side if the dragon came. Her eyes prickled with tears as she went to him. He was calming, but his head was darting back to keep his eyes on the thing above. “I cant risk it” she said to him, biting down on her bottom lip. “Go, Lethalin. Go away from here with the horses. I cannot ask you to stay now.”  
Asfaloth tossed his head and butted her with his snout. She moved back from him. Her chest was tight with dread. “GO! LEAVE YOU FOOL!!!” she screamed at him, her heart wrenching.  
Her hand came down hard on his side. He reared up, his eyes…his beautiful eyes full of confusion. At once, he whirled around, and charged away, disappearing through the smoke of the charred trees. She watched him go, and felt a part of her go with him. They were not supposed to be apart even in battle, but this was not his burden to bear. He could still go home. He could still run to safety and find his way back. It would be better this way. There was no sense in both of them falling today. 

Taking a deep breath, she composed herself once more. She urged Dennet to get behind the gates, and he ran as soon as the last horse was turned free. “Hadrian” She thought numbly. “that one is called Hadrian.”  
Harriet the blacksmith was struggling to shift a box that hand fallen in from of his cabin door. She shook her head and ran to help him. The contents of the box didn’t matter. She kicked it hard until it smashed and freed the door. He thanked her hastily, standing on his pride as he fetched something from within, and finally evacuated to the village. She had to dodge past all the bodies that now littered the floor. Soldiers were fleeing back through the gates, Commander Cullen frantically ushering them in as the dragon tore through the sky above. He looked exhausted, his efforts spent on ensuring a fast retreat. Blood darkened the normally immaculate polish of his armour, and she saw that he had sustained a wound to his arm during the fight. The look in his eyes beneath that steel helm suggested that he had already given up on winning this fight. When she passed through the large stone column, he shut the doors and barred them, shrinking back under cover when the dragon flew overhead again. “We need everyone back to the chantry” he proclaimed loudly, either to her or the exhausted soldiers beside him. “it’s the only building that can hold against…that beast”  
His men ran on ahead, and he turned to her then, shaking his head bleakly. “At this point, just make them work for it”

 

She ran through the streets, eyes stinging from the smoke that poured out from every building. They were being overrun. The dragon had destroyed the wood-post gates and now the Templars were climbing over the walls and flooding the village. Bodies of soldiers lay strewn across the cobblestones, barely recognizable where they had been burned or so battered by Templars. Roofs were starting to collapse as the flames licked at their structures, and she heard the cries of those trapped in the smoldering ruins. Thankfully, she found Solas and Cassandra fighting back a force coming over the wall near the tavern. She did not pause to aid them, for inside there were panicked cries rising over the sound of their conflict. She ran at the door shoulder first, wrenching it open to find the doe-eyed barkeep Flissa trapped beneath a support beam. Above her, the roof was groaning and cracking where it was no longer supported. She dived forwards, heaving the beam over one shoulder and tossing it to the side. She grabbed the girl by the arm and made for the door, running her blade through a foot soldier who tried to strike while she was hindered by Flissa’s extra weight.   
“Chantry! Go!” she said, gesturing to the soldiers that were still out looking for stragglers.   
Cassandra and Solas were suddenly beside her. She looked to them, looked at the armour-clad invaders rising up over the walls, and then they were running again, ears straining for signs of survivors. Seggrit the quartermaster was trapped in the cabin he had sought refuge in when the dragon attacked. It took their combined efforts to knock a hole in the wooden walls and break through to reach him. Only seconds before the entire structure caved in on itself did they manage to pull him from the wreckage.   
The path ahead of them was blocked by rubble. They had to take the long route around the other side of the village. They came across Adan and Minaeve by their cabins, set upon by Templars that burned away at the structures around them.   
And they were surrounded by explosive barrels. Fire was streaking across the ground already. If it reached them…no. Etain cried out to Solas, and he quickly slammed his staff into the ground. Ice formed around him, streaking towards the flames, cutting them off long enough for both she and Cassandra to pull the elf and the old apothecary out of harms way. Moments later, as they hurried them along the path, the dragon darted across the sky, and the ground rattled violently as the explosives ignited. 

Near the requisition tent, Threnn and her officers were fending off a group of Templars coming down from the hill above. A young woman was weeping, shrieking at a child hiding beneath an overturned crate. 

The others ran to Threnn’s aid. They hadn’t seen the woman as she had. Nor had they seen the Templars approaching from behind. Etain realized she wasn’t moving. She had halted at the sight of them. 

“Garas, Emm’asha”

The voice echoed in her mind, but it didn’t come from the woman. The child was wailing, shivering in terror as she hid beneath her cover. 

Just as she had the first time the Templars came…

Her bow was in her hands, notched with an arrow already. “No. Not while I draw breath you scum” She hissed beneath her breath.   
Her arrow struck the hulking Templar in the back, sending him reeling forwards. He wasn’t dead. Her arrows struck mortal wounds, but what Templars had clawed their way to the surface of the snowdrift were unnaturally strong. Every wave that approached seemed stronger than the last. The woman realized the threat and found her courage, she ran towards the child as Etain bowled into the enemy shoulder first, sending them both to the floor. “Get to the chantry!” she cried out to the woman, before the Templar managed to grip her by the neck while she struggled to subdue him. His sword had been knocked from his hand when she had shot him, and her bow was useless this close to a target. His gauntlet clad-fist came down fast, but she managed to tilt her head to the side before he could land the blow. Her hand worked its way to her back, and she managed to pull Banal’ras from its sheath. The short blade came up and pierced him through the exposed skin under his chin. Blood poured out from inside the steel helm, trickling onto her face before she could push him away. She rolled, staggering to her feet. She felt disoriented, nauseated by the smell of that foul blood upon her skin. She wiped it promptly from her face, retching at the taste on her lips. 

Another came at her, howling like a maddened beast. His metal pauldrons were barely visible beneath the red lyrium growing from underneath. In fact, there was less armour than there was Lyrium. And it was huge. Whatever it was, it was nothing but a mindless killing machine. It brought its blade down upon her. The strike was so heavy that it sent her staggering back a few paces. Damn. She knew the weaknesses of Steel armour. But where the usual weaknesses were, lyrium formed a protective defense, like a golem chipped and shaped into something resembling a man.   
All she could do was defend herself, slashing at him until he betrayed a weakness. His sword landed a single blow, cutting through her armoured side, and she drew her lips together to stop the scream that caught in her throat. It was probably deep. Her side was growing warm with blood.   
Solas fired a volley of arcane energy at the thing from behind her. The red Templar flailed, lashing out with one lyrium-clawed hand. She took a chance and dropped to one knee, hooking her blade behind its legs and, blessedly, slicing at the vulnerable flesh of his calf. He dropped, unable to support himself, and she brought her sword down upon the back of its neck for a killing blow.   
She stood, her chest heaving from the exhertion, and looked down at the horrible, malformed creature at her feet. Cassandra and Solas had dealt with the rest. Save for the dragon flying overhead, their forces had been cleared.

For now.

 

The last of the villagers had finally been escorted into the temporarily safe confines of the chantry. Chancellor Roderick, gripping the wound on his side, weakly guided them in, supported by the strange boy Cole. The Herald raced in behind, wheeling around to make sure she was the last before the doors were shut and barred again. As soon as Cullen sighted her he dispersed his men to fulfill his orders and ran from the opposite side of the hall. Maker, she was covered in blood. She took no time to rest, assessing everything around her. Her eyes fell upon Roderick and the boy. She bore no more love for the man than he did, but her eyes were filled with concern.   
Cole looked up at her and shook his head. “He tried to stop a Templar” he said sadly. “The blade went deep. Hes going to die.”   
He gently lowered him to the ground, propped up by the pillar at his back. “What a charming boy” he coughed weakly.  
“Herald. Our position is not good” he said. “that dragon stole back any time you might have earned us.”  
“I’ve seen an archdemon” Cole piped up. “I was in the fade, but it looked like that.”  
“I don’t care what it looks like” Cullen snapped. “it has cut a path for that army. They’ll kill everyone in Haven.”  
The boy slowly raised his head and looked up at them. “The Elder One doesn’t care about the village” he said forebodingly, his eyes falling upon the elf. “He only wants the Herald.”  
She looked at him, her brow arching. Perhaps it was the exertion of the battle, but she barely reacted to his words or his presence. “If you know why he wants me, just say it” she said firmly.  
The boy shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s too loud. It hurts to hear him” he whimpered. “He wants to kill you. No one else matters, but he’ll crush them anyway. I don’t like him”  
“You don’t like-“ Cullen tutted irritably. He needed direct information. Lives were on the line. Shaking his head, he looked to the Herald once more, keeping his voice low so no one else would overhear. “There are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining trebuchets, cause one last slide.”  
She was kneeling now, tearing at the sleeve of her undershirt and pressing it to her side. She was wounded. But she was also calm. He was glad of that. Maker knew they needed to set an example to the men. With Leliana and Josephine tending to the evacuees down below in the dungeons, he was the only one left to maintain control.   
“We’re overrun” she said, craning her neck to observe him. “to hit the enemy, we would bury Haven.”  
It was true. He was all too aware. With Templars forces still approaching from the valley above, and the dragon carving an unhindered path for them, with Samson, with the Elder one…  
“We’re dying” he stated honestly, no matter how hard it stung to say it. “But we can decide how. Many don’t get that choice.”  
Her brow furrowed. She shook her head, bewildered by his words. “No.” she said, a whisper at first, but there was anger in it. “No. You don’t just give up! Not when you have lives to defend. That is not the way you end this!”  
There was passion in those words, adamant and true. His hopes of victory, even evacuation, had been dashed when the dragon leveled the village. The Herald, somehow, still carried a flame of hope within her. Or perhaps it was merely stubbornness that prevented her from seeing the truth of the situation. Either way, she was a damned brave soul.   
“That force will do far worse to them once they breach the doors” he reminded her hopelessly. “Better we take them with us than suffer their slaughter.”  
She raised her finger, pointing at him accusingly. “I know what they will do!” she said, her voice quivering with raw, furious emotion. “Gods, don’t I know. But giving up is not an option. You don’t get to make that choice!”  
He stared at her, astounded by her outburst for all the depth it carried. He ran his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair and wracked his mind for something, anything to say to that. He wanted to believe that were the case, truly, but there was nothing to give them any such advantage now. 

Beside them, Roderick wheezed.

His head lolled to one side. His eyes were focused on the other side of the hall. Cole’s features scrunched as he leaned closer to him, and his barely visible eyes seemed to light up. “Yes, that!” he breathed, looking up at them. “Chancellor Roderick can help. He wants to say it before he dies.”

Roderick nodded weakly, his hand clasping his wound at his side. “There is a path” he rasped. “You wouldn’t know it unless you’d made the Summer pilgrimage, as I had.”

The Herald went to his side to save him from raising his already weakening voice. “The people can escape. She must have shown me” he gasped. “Andraste must have shown me so I could…tell you.”

“What path?” the Herald asked quickly, grasping his arm to keep him lucid. 

“It was whim that I walked the path. I did not mean to start -it was overgrown.” The Chancellor took a deep, staggered breath before he continued. “Now, with so many dead…to be the only one who remembers…I don’t know, Herald.”

The old man chuckled half-heartedly and placed a hand on the Herald’s forearm, sighing deeply. “if this simple memory can save us, this could be more than mere accident. You could be more.”

Herald Lavellan looked at him, lips drawn tightly together, and placed her hand over Roderick’s, offering the dying man a weak smile. She rose again to her feet and looked to Cullen. “What about it? Will it work?”

He considered it briefly, thinking of their numbers, their supplies, their wounded. Finally he nodded. “Possibly. If he shows us the path” he conceded, hesitant to hold out such hopes. “But what of your escape?”

Her jaw tensed. Her gaze turned to the door. He waited expectantly, but she gave no answer, and that was enough.   
The moment stretched out for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, her shoulders squared, and she unhitched the bow from her back. It was nearly as long as her in length, and intricately carved. She held it in both hands, turning it over, her gaze distant as though she were walking in a memory it summoned. 

And then, tentatively, she looked up, and held the bow out to him. “Take it” she said firmly. “and make sure it returns to its rightful place.”

Hesitantly, he took the bow from her. She had no arrows left in her quiver, but the weapon obviously held some personal significance. And she was entrusting it to his care. He didn’t know how to feel about that. 

“Herald, i-“

She raised her hand to silence him, shaking her head irritably. “Fenhedis lasa!” she exclaimed. “Now is not the time for that damnable title!”

She sighed, her lip twitching, and then she looked up at him again. “My name is Etain.“

Etain. 

All the months that had gone by, and none of them had known. None of them had even thought much to know who she was beyond the mark on her hand. 

Wordlessly, he nodded. 

They had a plan now, and they would have to move fast. He signaled for his men and directed half of them to the dungeons below. The rest he would send with the Herald. With Etain. It seemed strange to think of her by her own name. He briefed the remaining soldiers on what was to be done, and they unbarred the door and pushed it open. He heard the flapping wings of the dragon echoing over the hills above. And the red Templars were making their approach. 

“Keep the Elder One’s attention until we’re above the tree line” he said steadily. “If we are to have a chance- if you are to have a chance – let that thing hear you/

Etain nodded and unsheathed her blade, crossing her arm over her chest in salute, and walked towards the open doors behind the soldiers. The blood of battle was spattered in dark patches across her armour and face. She was wounded too. The odds had turned in the Inquisitions favour, and significantly worsened for her, and she was well aware of it. 

If she was afraid, she did not show it.

At first she walked, slowly and silently, through the burning rubble of what was once a thriving village, and then, she was running. He watched her, transfixed, until she disappeared into the smoking ruins. He slammed the heavy wooden doors, leaving them unbarred, in case….

“Etain, Etain. A sweet song, a sad song” the spirit boy Cole was mumbling as he shouldered the weight of Chancellor Roderick and helped him down the hall. “Halam’shivanas. it is the way and the way is good.”

He gripped her bow tightly in his hand. She would want it returned to her people, but he willed himself to believe with the last of his hope that it would be returned to her hands first. 

 

 

 

There were less of them now, but it hardly made a difference. They were strong, each one bigger than the last, but she could not afford to falter. She was the one who chose to side with the mages. She had her part in the decisions that lead to this retaliation from the Templar order, and the Elder One wanted her.   
Whatever the reason, she would not go down without a fight, and she would bury whatever remained of his treacherous forces before he even came close. A warrior faces the consequence of their actions, no matter the cost. Her very blood was calling her to action now. 

Her arms swung the blade with fervor, powered now by pure adrenaline, and hopefully enough to keep them back while the soldiers prepared the trebuchet. Nothing mattered now but that trebuchet. Whenever the men struggled, she took their place while they guarded her back. The mechanisms were heavy, and turning the cogs was taking time, but she felt it grow more and more tense with every turn.   
Suddenly, a gargantuan beast tore its way through the burning trees, uttering a ground-shaking roar. It looked like a mineral growth, jagged and glittering against the light cast by the flames of Haven. She groaned, wondering if things could possibly get any worse from this point. It ripped a tree trunk from the ground and tossed it towards them. One soldier was knocked clean of his feet, lying crushed beneath it when it settled in the snow. The beast thundered towards them and Etain leapt into its path. One blow was enough to send her to one knee, her jaw locked tightly with determination as she held its crystalized fist back with her blade. She caught a glimpse of a steel helm jutting out from it’s center. It was just as Fiona said in the future Redcliffe; it was feeding off a host like a parasite, and evidently the Red Lyrium was capable of sentience. She barely had time to process it before it brought down its other fist. She rolled beneath it and her sword clanged against its crystal-armoured sides. She was relieved that the ironbark was cutting deep enough to damage, but it only spurred the monster’s anger and leant more strength to its blows. She waited for it to thump its fist into the ground again before using its size as an advantage. Once it landed a missed blow, she grabbed hold of one of the jagged spikes in its shoulder and heaved herself onto its back. It staggered, whirling around to toss her off, but she held firm and stabbed her sword through the gap in the helm’s visor. It shook violently, a guttural sound wrenched from within before it started to come apart. It fell backwards then, and shattered like glass against the stone, as though it was never a person at all.   
She sucked air into her struggling lungs and rejoined the soldiers in loading the trebuchet. The counterweight was ready, the winch set, calibrated to the correct angle. 

 

And that was when the dragon reappeared.

“Run” she said, her voice deadpan and her feet moving before her mind could catch up. 

The soldiers were fleeing back towards the chantry ahead of her, but she wasn’t running. The dragon had fixed its gaze upon her. Running was futile. 

It opened its jaws and sent forth a hurdling spear of fire, setting the land around her ablaze. The earth churned, and she realized just a moment too late that it had ignited another explosive barrel. The impact sent her flying backwards, and the next thing she knew, she was lying on her back, flames licking at the ground all around her. In that one, split-second moment, she was staring up at the stars, her vision blurred and her mind empty of thought. And then the smell of fire brought her back to her senses. Her body was aching fiercely. Grunting, she rolled onto her side, panting in the smoke-thickened air. 

Then she saw it. The shape moving through the fire, and her heart was struck with panic. She was willing herself to stand, her instincts deafeningly roaring in her mind. It was coming, but what it was she did not know, even if she felt she ought to have.

The figure in the flames materialized. Her eyes went wide as she struggled backwards away from it. Whatever it was, it was worse than the Templars. 

It wasn’t something of this world, it couldn’t have been. 

It had a face, and that face, fused with solid lyrium, wore an expression of immense fury as he stalked towards her. Its body was skin and bone stretched over expanses of glinting red Lyrium. The limbs were long and disproportionate. Everything about it…him, seemed twisted and contorted as if it were undecided on its natural form.   
The flames seemed to part at his passing, licking away at the tattered edges of the ancient robes that adorned him. This was the elder one, she knew, and he had indeed come for her. 

Even if she had a mind to run, the dragon had made the prospect impossible when it landed behind her. It charged along the path like a beast of the land and slowed to a halt at her back. She reeled around to face it, and she could feel the heat of its rancid breath.   
It raised its head high in the air and blared out a victorious roar at the sky above, as if it were a hound that hand trapped a rabbit for its master’s enjoyment.   
“Enough” the unworldly presence said, his voice like thunder that rumbled of its own volition. He raised his hands and sent a tremor coursing across the ground, staggering her to the ground, and the dragon fell silent and withdrew a short distance. 

The Elder One cast his gaze upon her, cold and pitiless. “Pretender” he growled. “You toy with forces beyond your ken. No more.”

Her head was still reeling from the explosion. She shakily rose to her feet, swaying as she struggled for balance. “Whatever you are, I am not afraid” she growled back at him, eyes stinging from the flames.

“Words mortal’s often hurled at the darkness” he said coldly. “Once they were mine. They are always lies.”

He raised his hands…claws, warped and wrong as they were, and the flames around him seemed to whip back and forth, drawn towards him as if to lend a more threatening appearance. “Know me. Know what you have pretended to be” he said, in reverence to himself. The flames grew larger and encircled him. “Exalt the will that is Corypheus”

Her legs were starting to feel weak. She was too spent from fighting to keep up an appearance of utter strength. She was faltering, and with the dragon growling at back, and this Elder One..Corypheus, intend on her destruction, her fate seemed almost certain. Time, she reminded herself dizzily, I need to buy them time.

Corypheus raised one clawed finger towards her. “You will kneel.”

No. 

She would not kneel. He could shatter her shins and still she would give her remaining strength to die a dignified death.   
“Unbowed, unbent, unbroken.” The words of clan Lavellan.

“Never again shall we submit” the words of the Elvhen. 

“You’ll get nothing out of me!” she roared at him, her throat raw from the smoke that filled her lungs. 

Corypheus cast an unfettered glance at her and slowly shook his jagged, unshapely head. “You will resist. You will always resist. It matters not.”

He held something in one of his hands, a round object that he held at eye level, and at his prompting, it produced a thick red glow. He turned his gaze upon her again, dark, hollow eyes bearing deep into her very soul as if to wrench out what will she had left within. “I am here for the anchor. The process of removing it begins now.”

His other hand came up with a flash of dark red light, and her mark exploded into life. That was what he wanted from her. The damned mark she herself had never asked for. It heeded his call, drawn in by his power, her arm raising against her will. The red glow in his palm grew in size and power. “It is your fault “Herald”” he hissed mockingly. “you interrupted a ritual years in the planning, and instead of dying, you stole its purpose.”

He flicked his wrist, and suddenly she was straining against the pull of his magic. “I do not know how you survived, but what marks you as “touched”, what you flail at rifts, I crafted at the very heavens.”

His own words seemed to spur his distaste for her, and his anger at her supposed crime. He clenched his fist and suddenly the green glow of her palm turned red and painful, bursting with energy that made her wince at the sudden pain. She fell to her knees then, unable to stop them from giving way. Corypheus seemed hell bent on destroying her pride. “And you used the anchor to undo my work?” he exclaimed furiously. “The gall!”

Even as pain wracked her body, Etain kept her focus and resolve. “What is this mark meant to do?” she cried out desperately, her teeth clamping down on her lip to stop the pained sound from escaping from her chest. 

“It is meant to bring certainty where there is none” the Elder one gloated self-assuredly. “For you, the certainty that I would always come for it.”

The pull of his magic ceased suddenly though the colour of her mark was still fluctuating wildly between green and red. Each change sent another white hot streak of pain down her spine. With a snarl, Corypheus bore down upon her, grabbing her arm and wrenching her into the air, holding her there before him as though she were no more threatening than a straw doll. He was easily three times her size, if not more. “I once breached the fade in the name of another, to serve the old gods of the empire in person.” His eyes were focused intently on her mark, and there was an air of frustration in that intense gaze. And she was helpless, against both this…thing, and the mark beneath her skin. The anchor felt as though it was warring with its own loyalties, whether to her or to the one who had inadvertently lost it to her. Her palm was hot, burning, but it did not feel as though it was leaving her. Not yet at least. “I found only chaos and corruption. Dead whispers.” He jerked her upwards, so her face was close to his. Creators, he was a magister, just as the stories spoke of. The Tevinter magisters that brought the darkspawn curse upon the lands of Thedas. It seemed impossible to think those stories were true, let alone seeing one in the…partial flesh.   
“For a thousand years I was confused. No more.” He continued. “I have gathered the will to return under no name but my own, to champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world. Beg that I succeed. For I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty!”

Etain had no time to process the madness of his rambling, for with a dismissive growl, he grip tightened, and something snapped. She shut her eyes and felt the inscrutable pain of her shattered forearm send tremors of alarm coursing through her. Her heart threatened to burst beneath the pressure of holding back the screams. Corypheus bellowed out furiously and threw her with full force against the body of the trebuchet. Her head struck the wood as she tumbled onto the wooden pallets, coughing and spluttering when a coppery taste invaded her mouth. “The anchor is permanent” he snarled. “You have spoilt it with your stumbling.”

He would kill her now. That much was certain. But her sword…her sword lay on the pallets just inches away. Useless against an ancient magister….and a dragon….but she would die holding it. Her left forearm was limp and useless. The wound beneath her arm felt much worse than it had been since it was sustained, but she still had one good arm. Etain hauled herself upright, her fingers seeking her sword. Wincing hard, she used the side of the trebuchet to slide herself upwards. 

Corypheus summoned his glowering dragon to his side. “So be it. I will begin again, find another way to give this world the nation-and god- it deserves.”  
The dragon bore its spiny teeth threateningly, pacing behind its master like the subservient monster it was, waiting to be permitted to lunge and kill. 

A sound rang out in the distance. Her ears twitched and her eyes flickered away from Corypheus’ determined gaze. An arrow. A flaming arrow. A sign. 

The Inquisition was clear. 

“And you” Corypheus said, drawing her focus back to him. “I will not suffer even an unwilling rival. You must die.”

She should probably have felt a strong sense of fear. A dragon and an ancient magister against a broken, exhausted elf. There was no chance. Corypheus was waiting for a reaction to feed his ego and seal his victory.

He received none. 

Etain smiled. And then, she laughed, and the laugh became a fit of laughter that made her sides heave and give her further pain. It was not joy that created it. No, it was something else. A madness. The uninhibited madness of someone who had nothing left to lose. In the face of death, she could at least make it a good one. 

“I might well die today, Corypheus” She cackled, raising her sword above her head, the grin on her face stretched ear to ear. “but I’ll be damned if it’s by your hand!Hanin la enasalin!” 

She wheeled around and kicked the trembling lever of the trebuchet, and watched with glee as as it hurdled into the mountain right behind them. Corypheus scowled and reeled around as the snow loosed itself from its grip on the mountain and cascaded down upon the village like a tidal wave.

By the time he looked back, she was already running as fast as her legs would carry her. At her back, she heard the avalanche opening its jaws and devouring the village. She heard the dragon roar as it went to shield its master. 

She could only go forwards as the snow claimed the land. She felt it washing against her feet, up to her knees, and then she was leaping forwards out of its powerful sweep before it claimed her too, and she was falling, crashing through damaged wood and plummeting into depths unknown.


	51. Blood on the Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following Haven's destruction, Etain fights for survival against the treacherous elements. 
> 
> Meanwhile, Cullen feels the full effect of the nights events, and finds his faith greatly tested.
> 
>  
> 
> ***Want to set the scene with a visual aid? Take a look at the concept i drew on my deviant art page!:)***
> 
> http://thefempc.deviantart.com/art/Blood-and-Snow-573282433?ga_submit_new=10%253A1448040295

All eyes followed the arrow as it flew into the sky, carrying their hopes and prayers with it.

They waited. There was only silence. The village in the distance was still alive with flames.

And then, just when it seemed that hope was lost, the ground was rumbling from the impact of a rock against a mountain. Every single person who stood frozen like statues in the dark valley saw the snow cascade down the mountain as though the maker himself were cleansing the land below. The bright flames of Haven were all at once extinguished, and a huge shape in the new darkness ascended to the sky, and disappeared. For all that made the night an utter defeat for the Inquisition, they had survived, and that was enough for now. 

There were no cheers, only the shared exhaling of weary, relieved evacuees.

That was when the crying began, as the realization of their plight set it. Men and women alike collapsed to their knees, finally able to let their emotions be vocalized when the danger had left. Others stood still, unable to feel anything, numbed of emotion as they thought of the bleakness of their future. 

Haven was gone. 

The Herald of Andraste had sacrificed herself to save them all.

 

Glittering stalactites of ice loomed just a few feet above, green light dancing against their smooth formation.

_If they snapped, they’d kill me. Etain stared up at them blankly. I should move._

She rocked her body, trying to roll to one side. White hot pain streaked through her entire body. She gave up on the attempt and lay there, sprawled out on the freezing stone floor. 

She was cold. She had not felt cold for a long, long time.

_We have wandered through mountains for so long that you might say the ice is in our blood, da’len. Her mothers words. A deep freeze should have been nothing._

_Ah, but this is not the mountain’s cold, is it?_

It was the chill of death that was seeping into her body now, like bony fingers were reaching inside and wrapping themselves around her lungs until her breath froze in her throat. And breathing was hard. Every intake of air sent another jolt down her spine. 

_I am not dying in a cave….i want to see the stars at least, one last time……_

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, she just about managed to stand. She didn’t bother assessing the state of her condition. Broken ribs rattled when she took a staggered breath. She flexed her fingers. Only one had reacted, still wrapped tightly around her sword. Damn.  
The light in the other was still crackling away, but she couldn’t feel it, and thus it was hardly worth concern. Unconsciously she sheathed the sword. There was no point in holding it. She was alone. She would die alone. 

She braved a step forward, and sighed. Her legs worked. That was something. Broken planks of wood surrounded her. She remembered falling through something when she ran. Perhaps this was the tunnel that the Inquisition had come through. 

_They are gone._

 

The voice echoed in her mind, or perhaps through the tunnel. Her ears were still ringing from the explosion. She wheeled around, but nothing was there. She must have been hearing things. Those weren’t her words. She staggered on, her feet moving of their own volition, through a narrow tunnel now. 

_You should have run. Now you will die for them. They don’t care….you were nothing...._

Perhaps, she thought dully. It didn’t matter. The battle was over. She didn’t care much for wondering what people thought of her now. she just wanted to leave this cave.

_It was your fault…if you had only set aside your hatred…perhaps no one would have died…._

She flinched. Perhaps it was true. Her heard felt like it was twisting in her chest, contorted by a sudden grip of misery. 

There was light ahead, far away down the tunnel. She managed to increase her pace, even if her feet were still dragging on the floor. 

_How did it feel? Facing the Templars again? You remember the last time, of course…_

She staggered, leaning against the wall for support. She felt tears all of a sudden, but she felt no relief when they coursed down her cheek. She felt as though she were drowning in the blackness of grief. Her legs felt weighted beneath her, making it feel as though she were wading through the tide of it. 

Up ahead, she heard something. It definitely was not in hear head. An ear-piercing screech. A chorus of them. Somehow it made the pain in her heart and mind even worse, the pain surpassing even that of her sensitive ears. She clasped her had over the right side of her head. The other hand did not move.

_You are too weak, child. Give in, you know your life is worthless now…._

Robed figures danced though the air where the tunnel opened wider. They weren’t people. She shook her head helplessly. She had no fight within her now. she was lost. 

“away” she mumbled, her head low. “’away from me”

they did not move to attack. They simply watched her, feeding her with the despair they exuded, and feeding on the emotions that it provoked within her. 

Deep inside, something sparked. She snarled, surprising herself, lifting her left arm with her right one. The mark exploded into life once more. To her horror, a rift opened in the centre of the room. The things, the demons, that taunted her screeched out in panic as they were ripped from the air and sucked into the gaping portal. The room brightened blindingly as it devoured them all, and then, as quickly as it had surfaced, it was gone again.

_Rot in the fade, you wretches…_

Her vision blurred and blackened, but she was still moving, edging closer to that light at the end of the tunnel that she could barely see. The tears she had shed were beginning to freeze upon her cheeks. 

She staggered on, out into the freezing wind that whipped mercilessly across the mountainside. She shivered violently as it licked at her wounds. blinking rapidly, she focused her eyes on her surroundings.

A white canvas of snow, the air a thick mist only broken by each lash of cold that came down the mountainside. There was no path. She simply waded through, shielding her eyes from the sting of the wind. 

Someone had walked this path before her. Broken planks of wood jutted out from the snow bank, and up ahead, she saw a burning fire. Mesmerized by the temptation of warmth, she pressed on, desperate to reach it. Another gust of wind, and it disappeared, leaving nothing more than an upturned cart that slowly became enveloped by the elements. 

The howl of the wind carried a similar sound to its own now. she tried her best to ignore it, even as it grew. She raised her head, trying to catch the scent of something, anything, that would tell her where she was. The action rendered more pain. Her nostrils took in no air. It was likely her nose was broken too. 

She narrowed her eyes at something that lay ahead; a firepit, another sign of life. Again she tried to reach it, but as she approached the tree line, she found it was already cold. It seemed she would find no respite here.

How long she wandered through the snow storm, she did not know. The trees around her bent in the wind, groaning under the pressure it set. In truth, she did not know why she continued on. It was instinct, she surmised, a natural compulsion to press on, until death took her and she breathed her last. 

Uthernera. It seemed closer than ever. She had felt pain and suffering before. The anchor had almost killed her twice before, but this time, it seemed a certainty. Only when her legs gave way and the mountain took her would she find it. It was the right way to go. She only wished she could have been nearer to her clan. They could have buried her body the traditional way. 

She pressed on, climbing the slope with the villainous howls of a wolfpack at her back. They were stalking her from the trees. She could not smell them, nor see them, but they made themselves known with their vocalisations. Like the demons in the cave, she assumed they would wait until she was bereft of all strength before closing in. 

Time stretched on, until she came upon another hastily laid firepit. There were embers in this one, still holding some semblance of dying heat. It might have given her some hope to continue, but that time had passed. Her strength was leaving her. Death was looming ever closer. She dropped to her knees and stumbled forwards, landing in the freezing blanket of snow. 

The wolves were coming closer now, drawn by the scent of blood. 

Of course it would end like this, she thought bitterly. It only seemed right. Wolves at the beginning of her life, and wolves at the end.

The irony was fitting. 

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The camp was grimly silent following the loss of Haven.

People wandered aimlessly, no directive or motive to distract them from their shock. Only the healers were occupied with the task of tending the wounded. And there were many to attend. They had managed to drag a substantial supplies from the village during the evacuation, and thankfully the beasts as well. Three brontos that had been keep further up the mountain for the task of dragging logs back to the town, and Dennet’s horses. It had taken time to rally them together and bring them back. They would most certainly be needed soon, whenever they could bring themselves to order and leave.

Somewhere outside the camp’s perimeter, a heart-wrenching cry pervaded the air. It was not the first to sound of it the few hours they had been there. 

It was the Heralds stag that uttered those cries.

While they were hastily assembling a temporary home for the night, he had suddenly appeared from the trees not long after Dennet’s horses had been found. 

He bore an empty saddle, but no rider.

No one could get near him, either. A pair of scouts attempted to coax him into the camp, but he lashed out at them, rearing high and shaking his threatening, antlered head in warning. They left him there after giving up on luring him, and now he lay in the snow, unmoving, raising his head to the sky and bleating out for the master that would never come.

“Maker’s breath, could someone please calm that thing?” Cullen snapped irritably, even though he knew it would be a fruitless endeavor. 

The young mage who was tending his wounded arm flinched at the cutting tone of his voice. The others were looking at him too, for he had broken the silence surrounding the camp fire. 

Josephine sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, her head buried in her lap. “He’s calling for her” she sobbed, and they all knew who she was referring to.

Tutting irritably, he turned his attention on the mage at his side. “Go” he commanded. “stop wasting time on it, there are plenty of soldiers with worse injuries to attend.”

The girl took her hand from him quickly and hurried away at his behest. Cassandra had insisted the wound be inspected, but while it bled, it was nothing a bandage would not fix. He did not wish to feel the wash of magic upon his skin anyways. He knew his agitation would not help the situation, but he was tired, exhausted from everything that had transpired. 

More than that, he was fraught with guilt.

He should have expected retaliation from the Elder One. It had occurred to him to late that the strange behavior of both sides of the war could be linked to one source. It was his fault. He should have prepared his soldiers better. 

Now, the Inquisition suffered for his mistakes. The Herald suffered for it. 

He remembered her eyes, fierce with determination, before she charged through the burning ruins of Haven. Her bravery has saved them all, at the cost of her life. She knew she was running headlong into the arms of death, but it had not diminished her will to fight. In that, she had shamed and humbled him, for she kept her resolve when his had been lost. To that, he could not work his mind to imagine why she had done so. He had seen her leave, taking her first chance to do so and ready to fight if it was prevented. Yet at the first sign of danger to their forces, she returned in a blaze of glory to their side. 

The stag cried out again, a long, high-pitched drawl.

He could see him from the fireside, though he was enveloped in shadow. His thick, muscular neck was buried in the snow. Never in his life had he seen a beast show such desperate sorrow. Every time he uttered his sad cry, Cullen felt a sharp pain in his chest that spurred the guilt once more. 

They were shattered, leaderless, and too weary to decide on what the next day would bring. Even though they were safe, it was difficult to imagine where they might go. They had no options. They were lost. They were cold. Soon, they would be hungry when their supplies ran out. 

Cassandra kneeled on the ground, distracting herself with the map they had taken from the war room, trying to figure out where exactly they were. She took a deep swig from a bottle of ale at her side, and sighed. “I should have stayed. She should not have had to do this alone” she said somberly. “She stayed behind. She sacrificed herself, and she was alone when…”

She broke off, turning her head away. “The Herald did so much for us, and I never even thought to thank her”

Cullen stared deeply into the flickering flames, shaking his head. “Etain.”

The Seeker glanced up at him. “What?”

“Her name was Etain” he said numbly. “She told me that, right before she left.”

“Etain” Cassandra said distantly, furrowing her brow. “Strange, I suppose I never really thought to ask.”

Solas was pacing around behind them, his base of his staff thumping against the ground with every step. “She would not have told you even if you had” he said, his voice lacking in any emotion. “A name is a significant thing. To tell someone your true name means you are creating a tie to them. No doubt in the end, she wished to be remembered as herself, and not as the title that was created for her.”

Cullen had deployed to scouting parties to see if she had followed. Both had returned with a bleak response. No sign of life, just the cold wasteland below. They were high enough to escape from the worst of the wind, but everything around them was obscured by a thick mist. Anything referring to the Herald had turned quickly from “is” to “was”. it didn’t seem right, not after what she had done. whatever she might have thought, and made clear before she had first thought to leave, she was a part of the Inquisition, and he would not give up on finding her. Not yet. 

“We need to keep searching” he said suddenly, drawing the attention of everyone surrounding the fireside. “There might still be a chance. She could have, I don’t know, made it to the chantry before the Avalanche hit.”

Cassandra shook her head bleakly. “We’ve sent two watches already, and it has been too long now without a single sign of life. If she did escape, as unlikely as it is, the storm would have claimed her by now.”

Solas abandoned his pacing and stepped into the conversation with sudden interest. “It is not impossible, the commander is correct.” He said, his tone oddly reassuring. The elf gestured at the Hart stag outside the camp. “She and that creature share a bond beyond rider and steed. If he is here, he must believe she is alive. He would not come so close to a human settlement otherwise.”

It seemed a strange theory to Cullen, but there was some hope in it, so he accepted it without question. It did not take a great deal of time to rally some of his men together. Cassandra volunteered to join them as well. Solas went to the miserable stag, and the beast rose to his feet, tossing his head and pawing at the snow. It was a threatening gesture, but the apostate held no fear about him as he whispered in his strange foreign tongue. The Hart began to quiet, its large, intelligent eyes full of unexpected understanding. “There” the Elf said. “He should be calmer now. with any luck, he can find some trace of her.”

 

They followed the path they had emerged from previously, retracing their steps. The Hart plodded on ahead, snout low to the ground like a hunting dog. Cullen followed his lead at a distance. He knew the creature didn’t like him, for he had made that evident from their first encounter.  
The wind was relentless. The camp was in a sheltered area between two mountains, but the path was a narrow passage, and pushing at them from behind. The freezing air made his wounded arm throb, but the torch he carried at leant him some of its warmth. 

Suddenly, the Hart’s ears twitched, and he raised his head to sniff at the wind instead. Cullen watched him, his heart racing at the sudden change. Then he heard what the stag had reacted to; Howls, carried up through the passage from the slope below. They had set a fire down there to deter predators, and to serve as a beacon. But it had likely gone out since then with no cover to shield it.

The Hart suddenly reared, and then it was galloping, disappearing around the corner. Cullen broke into a run after it, leaving the others behind in his hurry. 

He turned the corner, skidding to a sudden halt. 

He forgot to breathe.

There, lying in the snow…..the Herald.

Etain….

 

Her silvery hair almost made her look as though she was born from the snow itself….  
He stood there at the mouth of the passage, unable to move for the shock. She was lying on her side, half buried in the snow. There was blood. He prayed it was not hers, at least not all of it.

In his shock, he did not see the wolves that clambered up the slope. But the hart did, and he was charging at them. Those that did not flee in time were torn to pieces by the furious swishing of his antlers. Cullen left him to fight off the predators. He ran to her side, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. 

Maker, please let her be alive. You cannot be dead, not after coming all this way…

The wolves were gone. Cullen fell to his knees beside her, and slowly, very slowly, he placed a hand on her cheek and turned her face towards him. Her eyes were wide open, but she was breathing, violently ragged breaths though. Alive, he thought with sheer relief. But she was cold as death to the touch. He felt it even through his glove. “Here!” he cried out to the others, hoping they would hear him over the wind. “It’s her!”

He was panicking now, his hands trembling as he observed the wound on the side of her head. Her face was marred with cuts, with one large one on the side of her head. “Etain?” he whispered, needing to get a response from her.  
Her eyes went wide suddenly as they focused upon him, and she was moving, wriggling backwards in her near-broken state. “G-garas q-q-quenethera?!” she rasped, dragging herself back from him with one arm. The other one flopped lifelessly at her left side, but it still glowed with the mark.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. She was terrified. Her eyes were wide with fear. Her head was wounded. her body had suffered wounds, too. She looked less like a living, wounded person and more like a coprse fresh from the battlefield. Her normally darker skin was pale and grey. Her lip was bleeding…no, something inside was. She had coughed that blood up. She needed healing. Fast. 

Her hart was circling them, bleating, lowering his head to sniff at her. Cullen tried to push him away but he would not budge. He was pulling at her hair, trying to revive her as her eyes rolled back in her head and then regained focus a moment later. 

Cassandra appeared beside him, gasping at the sight of her. “She’s barely alive” she breathed, and he could have sworn he saw tears in the Seekers eyes then. 

 

He inched towards her, and again she tried to move away. Without thinking he pulled the heavy furs from his shoulders and wrapped them around her and pulled her closer. She winced, her hand coming up to push against his chest. “Banal” she whispered, shaking her head weakly.  
She was speaking elven. He had no idea what she was saying but he presumed it meant no. “Shhh, it’s alright” he whispered soothingly, feeling the immense tension in her body when he took her wounded arm and laid it across her chest. “We need to get you to a healer. Etain…Etain?”  
She was blinking, her head lolling to one side as she started to lose consciousness. “No no no don’t! you need to stay awake” he pleaded with her desperately. “Please, let me get you to a healer. Youre injured.”  
He didn’t wait for a response. As gently as he could, he lifted her in his arms. She felt so light, so delicate and small. This was the same woman who faced down an army of Templars and crawled her way up this mountain. As if by instinct he felt her shrink against him, her body turning in towards his chest. Her head fell against his neck, and he felt her ragged cold breaths as she sought the warmth exuded from his skin there. It was a very unusual feeling, the way she essentially nuzzled at his neck, unconsciously trying to transfer his warmth to her even in her fading state. He was freezing himself, but substantially warmer than she was from the looks of it. 

“She wants to live, she wants to survive this night.” He told himself, holding as close to himself as possible without causing her further harm.

He wasted no time. The camp was not far. He broke out into a run with the others at his back, glancing down at Etain to make sure she was still awake. She was going into shock, he realized with panic, her eyes glazed over as she huddled up against him, buried inside the mass of fur that dwarfed her head. He almost wept at the sight of her like this, even as he ran. 

To his absolute horror, her head lolled back as her body went limp in his arms, just as the soft glow of the fire in the camp came into view.

“Healer!” he shouted, even before he had entered the camp. “I need a healer, quickly!”

A crowd was already gathering. He hurried past them as they gasped at the sight of him. Leliana and Josephine scrambled to their feet, mouths agape at the sight of the Herald. He quickly laid her down on the nearest unoccupied stretcher, and suddenly the fireside was swarmed by people. Solas was the first to her side, his face filled with anguish as he steadily began to check her over. “No” he hissed, unleashing a bright light from his fingertips over her torso. “Don’t you dare!”

Vivienne and Dorian pushed through the crowd and went to join him, and suddenly the air around her was filled with magic. 

The next hour became a battle for life as they desperately tried to bring her back from the brink of death, and the camp was filled with the sound of weeping and prayers. 

Cullen pushed his way out of the camp, thundering out into the cold of night, his sword in hand. He lashed out at nothing, swinging his blade and screaming out his anguish and rage, until sheer exhaustion alone forced him to lower it. He stabbed it into the ground and leaned his forehead against the hilt, sobbing away anger and frustration, his shoulders heaving.

Haven was destroyed. So many dead and buried beneath the snow in a massacre that should never have happened. His own brethren turned their swords against innocent people. If the Maker had any goodness in him, this was the time he needed to intervene. 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Perhaps it was luck, perhaps it was the collective prayers of the people, or perhaps it was just a strong will to survive against the odds.

After what seemed like a futile endeavor, the Herald of Andraste was finally pulled back from death’s door.

So far as the people believed, it could only be considered a divine miracle.


	52. Lucidity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Etain awakens in the Inquisition camp, and the events of the hours previous begin to return.

Everything ached. What didn’t ache had no feeling at all. Whatever she had done the night before must have been a vigorous exercise. She was struggling to remember. Was it a hunt? Had they run into some trouble on the road? Had she been injured?

Etain tried to open her eyes, but once she had done so, there was only a faint light filtered through the gauze that covered them. She was lying on her right side, swaddled in warm furs. These aren’t mine, she realized hazily. Nonetheless, she buried her head in them to quell some of the pain in her head and bring back the memory of what happened to put her here. The fur was thick, definitely that of a winter-bred creature. A bear perhaps? It hardly mattered what creature it was, but it felt good. It wasn’t a blanket that covered her. Once her fingers grasped its corner, she realized it was a rich material that she was touching. Soft textured, like velveteen. 

That didn’t make sense. 

No one in the clan would waste resources on such an expensive material. 

She wanted to see, but it required her to lift her left hand to pull away whatever was covering her eyes, a task that proved more difficult than she had thought. She brought the right one down to touch it with its limited mobility, despite how distant she felt from her own body, and was relieved to feel it, bound tightly against her chest but still there. That alone was about as much movement as she could muster. Someone must have treated her wounds, and likely given her something for the pain. It was a strange feeling, as though her soul was hovering an inch above her physical form, barely able to control it. Only her body’s natural urge to find warmth made her curl in on herself, drawing her aching legs further up into the embrace of the mysterious shroud that enveloped her. 

It smelled of leather, sweat and…steel polish? She could just about suck air through one of her nostrils enough to catch the scent, and it was a strange one at that, but in a comforting way. Yet as much as she appreciated the warmth, her head was pounding, the only pain she could feel in its full force. Barely lucid, it was as though all her thoughts were desperately wedged and trying to force themselves out at once. 

I cannot just lie here like a fool, she thought. I must know what happened…

She tried to move. It seemed like an eternity before she could even manage to roll onto her back, and she was panting heavily just from the effort of that. There were voices nearby, but they seemed distant in her ears, and she could not make out what they were saying. Eventually, she had managed to extend her arm further, enough for her to find the ground beneath whatever it was she was sleeping on and, painfully, haul herself into an upright position.

A sudden shuffle startled her, and then she felt a hand, gentle upon her chest, willing her to lie down again. “Hamin, Lethalin” came a voice from beside her, speaking soothingly in elven though she could not place who it belonged to. “try to relax. I will remove the bandage from your eyes, but you must do as I say.”  
She tried to resist the push against her chest, but rather than put up a weak fight, she slowly laid her head back down. “Good” the voice said gently. “Now, close your eyes.”  
Again she did so, though she wondered about the need for any of it. She felt fingers begin to wind back the wrappings from her eyes. She did not wait to be prompted further. Slowly, she opened her eyes, and an image began to come into focus.   
An elf, his face unmarked by the Vallaslin, skin pale and his head bald. She blinked. He is not one of our clan, she thought dizzily. And then, all the memories that struggled to come to her previously were beginning to torrent through her head.   
“Solas” she breathed raggedly. “Iras…”

“Bow before the will that is Corypheus”

Fire on the mountainside. 

A village in flames.

A dragon in the sky.

An army of Templars.

A glowing red orb held by something not of this world.

Wolves at her heels.

Someone begging her to stay awake, holding her close as darkness took her…

 

Panic struck her heart like a swift arrow, and suddenly, fingers were insistently grasping her chin, forcing her to look up into Solas’ deep grey eyes. “Etain, look at me. Only me” he said firmly. “Focus. Do you know where you are?”

Wordlessly she shook her head.

“Maker, she’s awake?” someone said behind him, but she dared not move her head.

“Sooner than expected” he responded, his gazed fixed upon hers. “Give me a moment Seeker, she is disoriented.”

Seeker. “Cassandra…” Etain managed to rasp. Her throat was so dry. 

Solas nodded. “Very good. You are with the Inquisition forces. You are safe now. Try to remember what happened, slowly.”

Everything was coming back to her in a rush. Of course she wasn’t with the clan. She had left to spy on the conclave. She had woken up in a cell with the anchor fused to her hand. She had stayed a while with the Inquisition to seal the breach.   
She had seen a future that never was, and closed the breach with the rebel mages. She had tried to leave, but found herself returning when the Templars marched on Haven. worst of all, she remembered the battle, and the Elder One's intentions for the world...

Eventually, it all began to make sense again. With Solas to calm her mind, things slotted into place and alleviated her panic about her surroundings. Although she remembered turning the trebuchet on the Elder One, the memory of how she had found her way here eluded her. When at last he let go of her chin, she realized that there were many eyes upon her. She turned her head and regarded them all; Cassandra, Leliana, Josephine, Bull, Mother Giselle, Sera, Blackwall, some of the villagers, and a few soldiers, all looking at her with the same strange look of concern and curiosity. And someone else. She had to think for a moment as she realized that something was missing. It was Cullen, his shoulders no longer buried in his usual fineries, only the steel armour and leather jerkin he wore beneath his…furs. She quickly glanced down at her the warm thing that enshrouded her, and caught a glimpse of the red streaks that adorned the otherwise almost black fur, and then the burgundy material that covered her bandaged torso. Whether it was embarrassment or shame, or both, she did not know, but either way, her cheeks were fiercely prickling with a sudden uncomfortable heat when she met his eyes again. 

Now she remembered. 

She had been barely conscious at the time, but she remembered lying in the snow, waiting for the death she anticipated as a certainty. 

There had been a flicker of light, and a voice, and suddenly someone was beside her, speaking to her, and the fear she felt. She didn’t wish to be moved. She was, at the time, content as she was, whether by the acceptance of her fate or the delirium of the cold. She recognized the voice that was willing her to be calm, but it was the eyes that held her focus, deep amber in colour and filled with worry…

And then, there had been warmth, before everything faded into blackness…

She quickly dropped her gaze to her injuries, studying them with a furrowed brow. There were more than she remembered. Most of the unrecognizable ones likely came from the fall. When she could move with more care, she would inspect them fully. For now, there was more pressing matters…

This was far from what she had been expecting. On a number of levels. 

Solas put a hand to her back and helped her rise, and once sitting properly upright, it was easier to see everything before her. They were in the mountains, and the area was covered in tents. It must have been set up once they had escaped the range of the avalanche. She remembered the arrow being launched into the air, the signal for their clearance. This was likely where it had originated from. 

“I am sure you have many questions” Solas said gently. “and there is much we must discuss, if you feel well enough, that is.” 

Etain nodded, and began to recount everything she remembered. 

Once everything of importance had been shared on both sides, the others slipped into a debate on their next move, and Solas gave her a draught of sleeping powders, bidding her to lie down once more. She tried to protest but had little enough energy to fight him on it when the powders began to take effect. 

He stayed beside her as she began to fall asleep, and before it took over her completely, he leaned close, enough that others would not hear him. 

“The orb. You say that Corypheus used it to try and draw the anchor from you?”

“Yes” she whispered, her eyelids beginning to grow much heavier. 

He nodded, and his face was grim. “It is still in tact, then.”

She wanted to speak more, to find out what he knew that he would not speak of aloud before the others, but the thought died on her lips as the world went far away and left her to a dreamless sleep.


	53. Faith remains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mother Giselle raises the beleaguered spirits of Haven's refugees, and Solas observes the makings of a true leader in Etain.

Even with Solas’ sleeping powders dulling her senses, Etain found sleep to be almost impossible once the argument erupted in the center of the camp. With a bitter sigh, she drew her knees up to her chest and curled in on herself beneath her coverings. Her body was beginning to regain its natural heat, and she was eager to be rid of the cloak that had been keeping out the worst of the night’s chill. It only served as a reminder of what had transpired, no matter how comfortable it was.  
Solas had left to attend the wounded on the other side of the camp. Mother Giselle had volunteered to take his place, and now sat on the stool beside her, silently watching the war council’s petty and pointless debate. The entire camp was eerily quiet, as most had disappeared into tents. It was likely that all of them could hear what was being discussed at the heart of their makeshift refuge.  
Resigning herself to the fact that there would be no more rest, she shifted onto her back, somberly staring up at the canvased ceiling as she listened.

“what would you have me tell them? This isn’t what we asked them to do!”

“we cannot simply ignore this. We must find a way!”

“And who put you in charge? We need a consensus or we have nothing!”

“Please, we must use reason! Without the infrastructure of the inquisition we’re hobbled!”

“That can’t come from nowhere!”

“She didn’t say it could!”

“Enough! This is getting us nowhere!”

“Well we’re agreed on that much!”

They fight like dogs in a pit, she thought grimly. Or insolent children.  
Of all the things they could do at a time like this, shouting their throats raw over their options was the most foolish. Shame on them all, with so many relying upon them. To call them children was demeaning to the children of her clan. Even they would have more sense than to throw a tantrum during a crisis, and it could be described as no less than a tantrum. With nothing left to debate and the realization that there would be no official agreed upon action, the tense silence crept out of the shadows and settled over the crackling fire. Etain reached out with her good hand and grabbed the wooden tent post, hauling herself into an upright position with a wince of discomfort. She looked at the broken war council, all having wandered off enough of a distance to express their annoyance with one another. Beside her, mother Giselle stirred, and looked at her concernedly. “Shh, you need your rest” she whispered gently, her hands clasped upon her lap.  
Etain wrinkled her nose and hunched forward. If she was not to sleep, she would not lie about like a fool. Shifting from side to side, she was glad to find both legs had no more than the ache of strenuous activity. Her torso was another story entirely however. The bandages covered her chest and abdomen, and somewhere beneath the wrappings there were stiches where the wounds were the worst; just above the thigh and under her armpit. Her arm was still wrapped tightly, pressed up against her chest so it would not move. There was a dull sensation of pain between her wrist and elbow, but the fact that it was still there was enough for comfort. “They’ve been at it for hours now” she muttered, poking at her ribs to see which were broken and which were intact.  
“They have that luxury, thanks to you” Mother Giselle said sadly, shaking her head. “The enemy could not follow, and with time to doubt, we turn to blame. Infighting may threaten as much as this Corypheus.”  
“Corypheus and his forces” she said, shrugging the furs from her shoulders. “where are they?”  
Mother Giselle frowned. “We are not sure where we are” she said unhelpfully. “Which may be why, despite the numbers he still commands, there is no sign of him. That, or you are believed dead, or without Haven, we are seen as helpless. Or he girds for another attack. I cannot claim to know the mind of that creature, only his effect on us.”

Etain grunted in recognition of her words. “They create headaches for themselves by fighting” she muttered. “and fear in those who rely upon them.”  
Giselle sighed and shook her head glumly. “They know. But our situation – your situation – is complicated. Our leaders struggle because of what we survivors saw. We saw our defender stand…and fall. And now, we have seen her return. The more the enemy is beyond us, the more marvelous your actions appear. And the more our trials seem ordained.”

Her head jerked up at that, and she stared at Mother Giselle with disbelief. That was never her intention. Her survival was not some divine resurrection at the hands of their god. She had not been guided by such a force. Her actions were her own. 

I am not the weapon of some higher being, she cried out within herself. I am myself. 

“It is hard to believe, no?” Giselle prompted her. “What “We” have been called to endure? What “we”, perhaps, must come to believe?”

Etain shook her head. “I escaped the avalanche, barely, but I did not die.”

“Of course” Giselle agreed. “And the dead cannot return from across the veil. But the people know what they saw. Or perhaps what they needed to see. The Maker works both in the moment, and in how it is remembered. Can we truly know the heavens are not with us?”

She swung her legs over the stretcher and looked at the woman in all her quiet serenity, so sure of her words and clearly feeling the truth in them. Etain could find no such peace. Divine providence based on an imagined truth, that was all it was. If people believed she was risen by their own god to destroy the evil that invaded his kingdom, they would find her to be a great disappointment.  
“Whatever the rest of you say, I felt no divine aid at the conclave” she said bitterly.

In some way, she wish she had. She wished the creators set her on this path, that praying to them would call them down, that praying to Mythal and having a pure heart would bring justice to those that wronged her as the stories spoke of. But the gods were gone from this world, and only Fen’Harel skulked in the shadows now, and his intervention was not to be asked for. This was not the path he had set for her either, she refused above all things to believe that. 

Despite the injuries and the beginnings of Giselle’s protests, she unsteadily rose to her feet, ignoring the sudden wrenching of her insides. “The struggle ahead…” She leaned against the tent post for a moment and took a deep, wavering breath. “ …it seems mine alone.”

She looked at the downtrodden war council, silent and weary now. Leliana and Josephine sat beside one another, huddled up against the cold. Cassandra lost herself in pouring over a map spread over a battered looking table. Cullen was pacing like a caged beast, looking as though he was arguing with himself in his own mind. They were lost, in more ways than one. It was a pitiful sight. Shattered and leaderless, the Inquisition would crumble into ruin, or freeze in the mountains, if by morning they had not found some answer to their plight. 

“Shadows fall  
and hope has fled  
steel your heart  
the dawn will come  
the night is long  
and the path is dark  
keep to the skies,  
for one day soon,  
the dawn will come…”

Mother Giselle walked out in to the open, her hands clasped reverently as her voice carried smoothly across the camp. Etain looked to her confusedly, and then realized that the others were slowly raising their heads in recognition of the song. Suddenly, Leliana’s voice rose up alongside hers.

“The Shepard’s lost  
and his home is far  
keep to the skies  
the dawn will come…”

Others were taking notice now, peeking out from tents or hovering a short distance away before approaching. Dismal expressions were turning to serenity as the words touched their faithful hearts. Mystified, she found herself stepping back, as the people began to come forward in a wave of the faithful. All of them leant their voices to Giselle’s reverent song.

“Bear your blade,  
and raise it high.  
Stand your ground  
The dawn will come…”

They began to kneel, as they might have done during a chantry sermon. Only it was not at the feet of their voice of faith Giselle….it was at hers. 

She was horrified beyond words. 

“…keep to the skies,  
for one day soon  
the dawn will come.”

And then, the song dissolved into an uproar of cheers as all those present began to comfort one another in a rush of optimism. Etain felt the colour drain from her cheeks. It wasn’t right, turning to desperate faith when everything was lost. Would they simply await their Maker’s intervention, and treat their current situation as a test of faith? Men lay dying from their injuries, and the cold would show them no mercy. If they did not take fate into their own hands, the mountain would be their grave. 

“Faith may have yet to find you, but it has already found them” Giselle said confidently, smiling at the huddled masses.

She said no more on the matter, and went to offer her guidance to her faithful flock. Etain felt the tension uncoil within her chest, and breathed a sigh of relief when she was forgotten. She wanted to slip away and never see such a display ever again. Yet she was trapped now as much as she had been in Haven. In returning to stop Corypheus’ destruction, she had lost her opportunity to leave. Knowing the Elder One’s intentions, and what lengths he would go to in order to achieve them, could she ever walk away, or was she bound to stand with the Inquisition until the last man was claimed by the cold? 

 

Solas watched their powerful display of faith, but more specifically, he watched the person it was directed towards. The Herald of Andraste, Etain, the one who had thrice fallen and thrice risen. In the eyes of the people, she was blessed. He himself had felt the lifeforce within her fade until almost quenched entirely each time, and every time he had expended what strength he had to wrench her back from death. But it was not simply his doing. No, she had fought for it, she had  
clung on to that last tether to the world of the living. Such a strength he had not seen in many years, and she was young, so young for all that was thrust upon her shoulders. Even now he could see it. She faced death without fear, and yet, with the eyes of the world upon her, her youth truly showed.  
He leaned upon his staff and mused upon her effect on those around her. He had known that closing the breach would not come without cost, though he had not expected it to be so soon. For all their efforts until now, the leaders of the Inquisition were falling apart, and their people would follow, unless there was something, someone, to look to now in their hour of need. 

That someone was standing before them, whether she knew it or not. 

When the camp was diverted by the revelry of their song, and Etain was forgotten for a moment, he slipped past them all, and went to her side. “A word?” He whispered, touching her shoulder gently.  
Silently, she nodded, and hastily followed him out of the camp. He lead her to a spot far enough away that no one would hear them. With a flick of his wrist, he conjured a flame in the empty torch post and watched the comforting blue fire come to life. “The humans have not raised one of our people so high for ages beyond counting” he mused thoughtfully. “Her faith is hard won, Lethallin, worthy of pride…save for one detail.”  
Etain came closer to the fire, and absently ghosted her fingers over the heat of the magic-made flame. He had long since began to notice her interest in magic, both from her frequent questions and from her unconscious reactions to it. She had a thirst for knowledge, and he admired it greatly. What he now had to tell her, however, would perhaps be more difficult to comprehend. “The threat that Corypheus wields? The orb he carried? It is ours.” He said gravely. “Corypheus used the orb to open the breach. Unlocking it must have caused the explosion that destroyed the conclave. We must find out how he survived…and we must prepare for their reaction, when they learn that the orb is of our people.”

Her amethyst eyes studied him with curiosity and wariness. “What is it? And how is it that you know this?”

“Such things were foci, used to channel power from our gods. Some were dedicated to specific members of our pantheon.” He said. “All that remain are references in ruins, and faint visions of memory in the fade, echoes of a dead empire. But however Corypheus came to it, the orb is elven, and with it, he threatens the heart of human faith.”

He saw the way she worked through it in her mind, her brow furrowed with worry. She had already tried to depart from the Inquisition, and she had considered it well, even if it were not so simple. He too had planned to leave when the time was right, but now it seemed they were far from done. She reached up and touched her tightly bound left arm. “Even if we defeat Corypheus, eventually they will find a way to blame the elves”

“I suspect you are correct.” He agreed, nodding grimly. “It is unfortunate. But we must be above suspicion to be seen as valued allies.”

She frowned, the efforts of the past night showing heavily on her features. “Solas, what can be done? I have nothing more to offer beyond what I have done. I left with that knowledge, knowing my presence would soon be a left for scrutiny and suspicion. I could do more damage here, for my people, and for the Inquisition.”

He gazed at her with thoughtfulness. Deep within those bright and beautiful eyes, there was a pain others overlooked, something that spoke of a sorrowful past. And there were scars on the outside too. He had not overlooked them during his healing. Whatever she had faced before, it had left its mark upon her as vividly as the anchor now did. 

Gently, he took her chin between his fingers and raised her gaze to meet his. She stared back at him with confusion. “Faith in you is shaping this moment, but it needs room to grow.”

“But how?” she asked meekly.

_So young, so fearful, so oblivious to your own ability. We are not so different you and I, she-wolf._


	54. A Life-debt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With no plan to speak of, Cullen fears the worst for the Inquisition. An unlikely individual steps up to take control of the situation.
> 
>  
> 
> Apologies for the late delivery of this chapter. Major writers block happened but here it is, enjoy! :D

It didn’t matter how many times he looked at the map, for it yielded no more than it had the first time. Sending scouts out into the cold valley was little more than for show, so the refugees would at least believe they had some semblance of a plan. They had none, and soon it would become apparent, when the sun finally rose and still they had no direction to set a course.  
Cullen’s throat was raw from arguing his point. His pessimism was not of much help, but it was more practical than pretending there was a positive outcome to the situation. Even if there was some ally willing to take them in, they would have to find their way off the mountain first, and even at that, what ally of theirs would be so willing to accept a broken, barely accepted group already viewed by most as a heretical movement of rebels?  
Mother Giselle’s song had lifted the spirits of everyone in the camp, and although he felt that same sense of hope restored in the shared chorus of reverent voices, it also left a great deal of pressure upon the war council to find some way out of this dismal situation. One way or another, they would need to move. They had injured soldiers to safeguard, and what was left of the civilian populous. Yet in deciding on a directive, they might simply lead the people further from salvation. Could they risk it? Did they have a choice?  
Worst of all, the sound of his injured soldiers groaning out their pain into the night pervaded the camp. While arguments amongst the war council had raged on, at least they had been drowned out, but now, the wrenching sound echoed in his ears and made distraction a pointless exercise. They should have been conferring over decisions now, but tensions were high, and not so much as a glance was cast at one another in case it sparked a renewed debate.  
In the end -much to everyone’s surprise- it was the Herald who broke the silence. As if from nowhere, she and the apostate had appeared by the fireside. She had disappeared rather quickly without a word, and he was shocked to see that she could stand at all, even with Solas’ gnarled staff to lean upon. He was relieved to see that the worst of her injuries were mended, or at least on their way towards mending. Her slender waist, chest, left arm, and the side of her head were covered with heavy bandages. Her dark skin was still dull and pale, but she stood there in the cold as though it gave her no discomfort.  
As to Solas, there was a calm about him that always made him seem suspicious, as though nothing came as a surprise to him even after seeing the fate that had befallen Haven. Standing now in the heart of the camp, his steely grey eyes glowed like moonlight, and beside him, the haunting violet eyes of Etain cast their own haunting hue upon her cheeks. Side by side, they looked like a pair of ghost-like cats caught in the lamplight.  
“The awkward silence is preferable to the arguing” Etain said, casting her gaze at them all. “But pointless, nonetheless.”  
No one responded, though all were equally curious as to her sudden reappearance. “The Herald and I have been discussing the matter, and believe we may have a plan, if you wish to hear of it.”  
The war council looked to each other with disbelief, and then back to the elves. Solas took a seat on the vacant bench by the fireside, having grabbed the interest of those assembled. “The Inquisition’s current situation, though grave, is not yet hopeless.”  
“With the loss of Haven, the Inquisition will need to take up residency elsewhere” Etain continued. “Somewhere it can heal from its losses, and continue to grow.”  
“How?” Cassandra laughed humorlessly. “In case neither of you were aware, we are not even sure where we currently are. Even if we were to find our way from this mountain, where would we go that would be safe for such ambitions?”  
“I believe I may be able to assist in that regard” Solas said assuredly. “There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. There is a place where the Inquisition can build, and expand, and become more than it has ever been before. All you need do is reach it, and it is yours. “  
Cullen shook his head in disbelief. “Impossible. If such a place even existed, someone would have taken notice” he said. “and even if it did exist, how do you know of it?”  
The apostate turned his calm and resolute gaze to him. “it is certainly real, passed through the hands of many over the centuries, but eventually lost in the flow of time and left to be claimed by the elements.”  
“And you know for certain its location?” Lelliana interjected.  
Unhelpfully, the elf shook his head. “Alas, while I know of its existence, and know it is within these mountains, I cannot locate it myself.”  
Cullen growled impatiently and slammed his palm down on the rickety table. It rattled from the force of his strike. “Well then we are no closer to resolution than before!”  
It was then that the Herald came forward, supported by the wooden staff. “Solas has told me of it. If it is indeed within these mountains, I can find it.”

Surely it was a jest. A mysterious fortress hidden in the mountains, readily available for their use, untouched and never sought by any in recent history.  
To say he was not inclined to believe such a thing would have been an understatement. “We can’t risk it” he said stubbornly, as the others showed signs of consideration. “We have too many injured to make such a journey without undisputed proof of its location. I cannot in good conscience agree to-“

“Elgar’nan!” Etain snapped suddenly. “Kneel in the snow and pray for direction from your Maker until the cold takes you then! You’ll find no answer from the sky apart from the howl of the northern winds!”

She turned on her heels and stalked a short distance up the slope and pointed towards the sky. “There, you see?” she said loudly, gesturing towards the dim light invading the darkness in the distance. ”There is your dawn come to usher in a new day. See it with a grateful heart, for it is the sacrifice of your brethren in Haven that made such a sight possible! Will you let such a sacrifice be in vein? Will you complete Corypheus’ victory and be defeated? Or will you rise from the ashes of Haven, reborn as a force to inspire all who would oppose his dark future?”

Cullen stared up at her, utterly enthralled by the sheer passion of her words. In the past, she had been a woman of few words. He was not used to such a sight as this. Others had taken notice too, and they came to see, and to hear her words. It was quite the sight, how the sun rose in the distance and shrouded her in its brilliant, golden light. For all his past doubts, for all his suspicions and disdain for the actions she took, standing now atop the slope, looking down at the camp with the brilliance of a new dawn at her back, she truly appeared to be Andraste’s prophet. 

“It will be no simple task, but I swear to you all here gathered, that if you follow me now, I will lead you to safety!” she declared, a fierce roar that leant fire to her words. “What say you?”

Silence. For in that moment, all fell into the grip of fear. It was fear of the unknown, of the uncertain future. 

Unfaltering, again she cried out to the camp below. “What say you?!”

And this time, it was Cullen himself who came forward and spoke. “I say we follow!” he declared loudly. 

A chorus of agreement rang out around him, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He looked back to the Herald and saw the shock on her face, as though she had not expected such a reaction. When her eyes fell upon him, they lingered for a moment, wide with surprise, and then she looked away swiftly. 

She descended again and came to the fireside, ignoring the huddled masses gathered around her and focusing on the war council.  
With Solas’ staff, Etain began to draw lines in the snow. “We go North” she said. “Get this camp packed and ready to depart by the time the sun has fully risen. Daylight is precious, and every moment of it must be utilized.”

Within half an hour, she had listed off all tasks to be dispersed amongst the able-bodied, and no one dared dispute her “orders”. 

Soon enough, everyone was in a flurry of action, and the war council separated to relay particulars to those best suited to efficiently handle them. 

“Commander, a word, if you will” Etain said suddenly, before he left the campfire. 

When he turned, he saw that she held his coat, neatly folded in both hands. “Yours, I should think.” She said, almost sheepishly. 

He had almost forgotten about it. He had left her still swaddled in it when the healers attended her. Suddenly he was reminded of the sight of her in the snow, bloodied and broken, when he had first wrapped it around her shoulders and held her against him as her life was slipping away. Still the guilt gnawed at him, to have left her near enough alone to face all that she had. He cast his eyes to the ground and shook his head. “You need it more than I”

Nonetheless, she trust it towards him as though she would be rid of it quickly and he was forced to take it. “No. I am well enough that the cold will not bother me. You will need it, and I would not take what furs I did not hunt myself.”  
“I…didn’t hunt them either?” he said rather pointlessly. “I don’t even know what animal it comes from, to be honest.”

She narrowed her eyes at him as though affronted, but her expression became stony and pained all of a sudden. “I did not die and return to life. You know that, yes?”

“I…well, you were badly injured, Et…um…Herald.” He said, confused by the sudden change of topic and how he should address her now. “There was a worry that you might not make it. I’ll admit I thought that myself, for how bad your injuries were.”

“it was you who found me, then” she said numbly.

“Yes”

She breathed a deep sigh and nodded solemnly. “I see. This is not what I expected. It would seem now that I owe you a life-debt.”

He furrowed his brow at the seriousness of her statement. “You owe me nothing. After Haven, I would never-“

Her hand came up to silence him. “Please, already I am shamed and humbled by your actions, do not affront my honour as well.”

He was dumbfounded, utterly confused by the sudden shift in her demeanor. Her large eyes were as hard as jewels, but the raw quiver in her voice made it sound as though she might cry, if she was even capable of doing so. How had he shamed her by rescuing her on the mountainside? 

Before he could ask more, she brushed past him and disappeared between the tents, leaving him alone save for the unnerving presence of the boy Cole, who was binding the lifeless body of Chancellor Roderick who had passed away sometime in the night. He looked up from his work and stared at him in a manner that made his skin itch.

“It made the fear more real but it was enough to scare the wolves away. Templar hands were made to hurt, but his were soft and gentle…”

Cullen eyed the boy suspiciously. He wasn’t right. His Templar instincts sensed magic was involved with Cole, whether he was a mage or not. Thankfully, he was not the only one to consider something was amiss. 

But those words, were those his, or someone elses?


	55. A familiar Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey to Skyhold begins, and Cullen learns exactly what a life-debt truly means to the Dalish.

Standing before the vast expanse of the empty mountains, Etain took a deep breath and let the ashes in her hand sift through her fingers. She watched intently as they danced through the air, caught in the updraft, circling and soaring, until they disappeared in the wind. 

North. We go north. 

Already she was beginning to map out the route for as far as she could see, and behind her, the Inquisition was following at a slow pace. Every horse and bronto was hitched to a wagon or cart, hauling supplies and those who had been injured in the conflict. The only beast not preoccupied with bearing a load, was Asfaloth. Discovering him amongst the survivors of Haven was the only thing to give her heart relief. He had followed his instincts and waited, faithful to a fault, even when she had begged him to go and assumed her fate was sealed. But he stayed, ever the steadfast companion, reminding her that she was not quite so alone as she often felt.  
As the camp was being packed away, she had found a quiet place in which she prepared herself for the day. Even though she felt the Creators would not hear her, she knelt for a time in the silence, easing away her thoughts with every breath; thoughts of Templars, and fire, and Corypheus. By the end, she touched her forehead to the snow, willing Ghila’nain to show her the path to safety, as she always did before beginning a journey. 

Standing now at the beginning of that journey, she shut her eyes and let the wind wash over her, stirring her hair where it was loose from the braid. _You are the she-wolf, the daughter of the Hound of Winter, a true warrior and ranger of the Lavellan clan. You were born for this life, and you can do this._

For the first time since she had encountered the Inquisition, she believed it. They were lost without an established home, without walls and fortifications and the comfort of wood and stone to shelter them from the elements. That was a life she had known since birth, the life of the people of the Elvhen who refused to bow to shemlen conquest. It was a life of survival, of hardship, one where the future was always in question. It was the knowledge of that way of life that she could use now to aid the Inquisition.  
Asfaloth lowered himself for her to mount, and with her good arm, she heaved herself into the saddle and gripped his mane with her one good arm. She grunted at the pain as he jumped to his feet, and her mending ribs clicked against one another audibly beneath the bandages. She lay slumped over his thick neck for a moment as she steadied herself. Riding would be difficult, but she would be worthy of leading no one if she could not take to the saddle. They needed to see her strength was unwavering. Solas had granted her the use of his carved wooden pipe, and given her a stack of bark cuttings to smoke along the way to ease the pain. It was a method of pain relief used almost exclusively by her kin, and she would be glad to make use of it. The barks had a sweet smell that conjured fonder memories. 

As the Inquisition made its way through the mountain valley, she galloped ahead until she came to the highest point possible without straying too far. Before her, she took in the vast sea of peaks shrouded in mist and snow. Solas had told her all she needed to know about the location she sought. A large fortress would not have thrived so far from civilization unless there was a road, and if she could find signs of it, it could be followed. Behind her, the Inquisition was beginning to catch up, heralded by the sound of clomping hooves and creaking wagons, and distant voices of those well enough to walk on foot. They would tire quickly, but the daylight was too precious for them to stop. She cast a glance over her shoulder and watched their slow procession making its way down the slope.  
It seemed such a familiar sight, and yet so different. At their head, Solas walked with Leliana and Cullen not far behind. The sun was high in the sky above, and caught on the brilliant polish of the templar’s armour. She turned back to her task before he might catch her gaze. Since their last encounter she felt a deep sense of foreboding, and confusion, at the knowledge of his actions when she lay dying in the snowstorm. Even if her actions now would shield her kin from the backlash that might come from the knowledge of Corypheus’ power source, she now owed Cullen a life-debt. By her honour, she would see it paid, for the shame of not doing so would be a dire cost, even in knowing that she would be paying it to a shemlen, and worse, a Templar.. Above anything, she was beginning to grow more wary of him. He was a stubborn and arrogant fool of a man, and yet he was unlike his brethren in many ways. That in itself was as perplexing as it was unnerving. Yet would she ever be able to face the clan, and worse, her father, bearing the knowledge that her life had been saved by such a man?

The rest of the day she spent riding back and forth between the inquisition and the route ahead. She would return to check on their progress and ensure that none were falling behind. Bull’s chargers kept to the back of their retinue and ensured their formation remained neat. Even if none of Corypheus’ army were in pursuit, wild animals were still a danger when the smell of blood was in the air.  
By the time the sun was setting, she lead them to a less exposed area surrounded by trees. With the help of all those who were capable of labour, a camp was established within two hours. Several small fires were set between the tents to keep warmth for each area, and what little food supplies had been gathered just about managed to feed everyone. With things running smoothly and guards set to watch the perimeter, Etain conferred briefly with the war council about what would need to be done for the morning. Leliana rounded up volunteers to hunt for deer and rabbit to replenish the meat supplies and gather herbs. She longed to hunt for herself, but with one arm out of commission for the time being, she begrudgingly passed the task to others. When time permitted, she would gather stone and wood to make throwing axes. Though it was a more crude method than a bow, it would at least only require the use of one arm. 

“Ensure that nothing is wasted from the beasts slain” she ordered. “Everything can be put to use; bones, pelts and meat.”

The scouts-turned-hunters set out with bows in hand, and Etain was back in the saddle not long after their departure. With the camp now established, she could ride out and scout a trail for the next morning. Her muscles throbbed in a futile rebellion against her efforts, but she did her best to ignore it. She could rest when her task was done. 

 

The camp began to settle once everyone had eaten a hearty meal of vegetable stew. It had been a long day, and most of Haven’s refugees were fit for sleep as soon as the tents had been assembled. Only the guards stayed at their post, as well as those who had volunteered to watch over the injured on the other side of the camp. Dorian and Vivienne oversaw their care, and Solas had gone to help for a time before he reappeared at the fireside to make use of the empty cooking pot for poultices.  
Cullen was exhausted from the journey. His calves ached from wading through the deep snow banks. He was used to marching, and the years of arduous exercise had given him the constitution to do so for substantial amounts of time. But this was not a terrain he was used to, and his body was strained by that lack of familiarity. He was grateful to finally sit and take in the warmth of the fire. The day had yielded a clear sky, and even with the sun bearing down upon them, it was still cold enough to cause discomfort due to the altitude. Josephine was already beginning to fall asleep on the bench beside him, and it didn’t take much to convince her to seek out her stretcher and sleep. The council kept to the same tent; it was the largest one to make room for the table that held their maps, as well as their temporary beds. Three stretchers in the far left corner for Cassandra, Josephine and Leliana, and a bedroll stuffed with a layer of hay that served as his own bed placed closer to the door. Etain had been offered a place, but in a rather cryptic manner, she had refused and stated only that she would be glad of a place for her stag nearby. She had left shortly after the hunters that searched for game in the valley, to scout a route for the following day.  
“She should be resting” he said disapprovingly. “It wont help her injuries if she doesn’t rest.”  
Cassandra said nothing as she warmed her hands over the fire. Across from him, Solas chuckled. “You have not much experience with the Dalish, Commander”  
“Evidently not” Cullen muttered as he poured himself a mug of ale to soothe his sore throat. “I suppose you would know.”  
“Because I am an elf, I assume” the apostate remarked rather coldly. “I am not Dalish as she is, but I know of their ways. You can chastise her as much as you like, but I suggest you accept now that she will not listen. They are a vexing people, the Dalish; Stubborn, loyal to a fault, blood-thirsty, and yet, in the same breath, honourable, dedicated, and devoted to the perfection of their every craft and custom. Until her task is done, she will rest only when she must. Ranger’s do nothing in half measures.”  
Cullen nodded, though the topic was a veritable mystery nonetheless. “She said she owed me a life-debt for saving her life.” He said, remembering her unhappy reaction to his confirmation of that fact. “Although I have no idea what that means.”  
Solas glanced up at him, his large eyes narrowed. “I see. And I suppose she did not looked pleased in saying it.”  
“How did you know?”  
He shook his head as though he were displeased. “A foolish custom of the Dalish, known as the “Vir Sulevanin”. In saving her life, she is indebted to either repay that action in kind, or agree to complete a task you believe is worthy of the action.”  
“I would never ask such a thing!” Cullen protested earnestly. “surely those who healed her are more responsible for-“  
“You misunderstand, Commander” the elf said impatiently. “A healer who uses their powers to save another is doing their given duty. It is no more than a task achieved by utilizing their power for its true intention. You, on the other hand, posses no such power, and yet, for a single moment in time, you held her life in your hands, and made the decision to intervene where she would have died.”  
Cullen stared at the elf with gaping confusion. Were the Dalish so strict on their customs to believe in such a debt? “And if I were to call off such a debt.”  
Solas leaned forward and peered at him over the flickering flames. “Allow me to make this as clear as possible; whether you wish it or not, Etain believes she owes you this debt of life. The shame of owing a debt to one who once called himself a Templar would be second to the shame of leaving it unfulfilled.”  
There was something foreboding in his tone of voice, unlike his serene demeanor. Deep within those eyes there was something that seemed very close to anger.


	56. Dark Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Etain spends a night in contemplation.

The simplest of things are said to have the greatest impact on the flow of history; a single drop of rain, a gust of wind, a chance encounter. For Etain, it was a single moment in time, viewed through a billowing cloud of smoke.  
She sat near the fireside, with the great, bulky frame of Asfaloth curled around her, staring at the mock-village of tents spread out around the sheltered tree scape. Her body felt light, as though her soul was desperate to satiate its wanderlust without the constraint of flesh. It was not an unpleasant feeling, for it dulled the ache of her weary bones and stitched wounds. Every intake of the thick, sweet bark cuts was a wonderful sensation of warmth as she sucked it through the wooden pipe. Asfaloth snorted disdainfully at the swirling smoke that chased around his wide nostrils, so she appeased him by tilting her head back and blowing it up into the night sky.  
When she brought her head down again, the Aravels were bright and stark against the snow and the trees. The elders whispered amongst themselves in the Keeper’s tent, while the young hunters were sprawled around the fire, sharing drinks and laughing amongst one another. She wanted to join them, for there was so much to tell them. 

_I am alive. Isn’t it strange? They spat at my feet and called me a murderer. I stayed for the clans sake, so the treat of the Breach would be quelled. I was ready to run, I was so close. Look back and be lost, is it not so? Yet in staying I learned much. I felt the life leaving me, so close to a glorious end. Now, everything is in question. They follow me with hope of salvation. I see the road they must take but not my own. My path lies in shadow. Who am I now? Who must I be?_

She blinked, and the image of clan Lavellan wavered and blurred. She reached out, trying to hold on to the image for a moment longer, but it was gone, disappearing into the darkness and leaving her in the camp of the Inquisition once more. Frowning, she sat upright and reached for the closest branch in the woodpile, and flung it into the dwindling fire, where it exploded with a loud snap and brought the flames to life once more. Sighing, she fell back against the warmth of Asfaloth’s belly and inhaled another draw of sweet bark from the pipe. Once again, she let her head fall back, and exhaled slowly. The smoke danced like ribbons in the wind, swirling in pretty shapes beneath the stars, and then they were gone, but the stars remained, bright and alive in the cloudless sky. She felt good, as though she were being lulled to sleep by an invisible force.

And then, for one horrifying moment, the face of her mother flashed before her, eyes empty and spilling forth tears of blood, her vallaslin twisted and warped by a crude and sickening brand. 

She jolted upright, heart racing, and almost jumped out of her own skin when she realized that she was not alone. The figure before her was anything but threatening. It was Josephine, huddled beneath her blanket and standing, shivering by the fireside. 

“Oh, im…so sorry if I startled you, Herald.” She squeaked, her eyes bleary from sleep.

Etain shut her eyes for a moment and waited for her heartbeat to slow before acknowledging her apology. “No, it is fine.” She whispered hoarsely. “Forgive me, I was…far away.”

Josephine shifted uncomfortably, tugging the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Nonetheless” she said weakly, lowering her head. “I suppose I did not think anyone would be awake.”

“You could not sleep?”

The ambassador shook her head, and Etain nodded. Josephine was a gentle creature, more used to the luxury of rank and the comfort of dry clothing and warm quarters. Now, she looked pale and haunted, her cheerful, lively demeanor suppressed by exhaustion and fear. Hazy from the powerful effect of the pipes contents, Etain made a gesture for the woman to take a seat upon the bench opposite her, and she did so without question. 

“Something troubles you more than the cold” Etain surmised, shuffling down until she was lying flat on the snow with her head propped up against her hart’s stomach. 

Josephine rested her head in her hands and sighed. “Everything that happened in Haven. Its just…” She shook her head and took an unsteady breath. “The Elder one, the dragon…as terrifying as it was, it was the Templars that frightened me the most. They have always protected people, made them feel safe. Now…everything that they stood for…warped and destroyed. Where they once gave hope, now…fear. If this Elder one leads them, the rest of Thedas will come to see them as such.”

Etain felt her fist tighten of its own volition. “The red lyrium merely made their monstrosity apparent on the outside. That capacity for barbarism has always existed within them.”

The words tumbled from her mouth before she could suppress them. Josephine flinched at the malice in them. “But they have always served the chantry with such loyalty.”

Whether it was the effects of the bark or just her temper too long suppressed, she let the bitterness seep out like pus from a festering wound. “Yes. Always they have served the chantry, the militant dogs of holy war. Ever dedicated to order, to the purification and purging of all those who they deem as unnatural. They need no proof to confirm who their enemy may be, only a leader –a master- to stoke the fire.”

The ambassador stared at her with wide eyed shock. In the haze of anger, Etain barely noticed. She took another draw from the pipe, a deep one, until the remainder of the bark became crisp and turned to ash. It quelled the rage pooling in her belly, just enough to make her aware of Josephine’s almost fearful demeanor. At once she was checked. Of course it was a shock to them all that the Templars would betray them. Loyal Andrastians would never need to fear their own defenders, unless they were unfortunate enough to be born a mage. 

Humbly, she sat up and bowed her head. “Forgive me, Ambassador Montilyet. It was unkind of me. I understand it must have been unsettling for you to see.”

The young woman sat frozen for a moment, her hands clasped tightly upon her lap. Slowly, she shook her head, her mouth opening and closing silently until she found her voice again. “Herald…I…” she took a steady breath, and looked to her with an earnest, gentle gaze. “I didn’t think…you speak as though it is familiar to you?”

Etain upturned the pipe and let the ashes fall to the ground, frowning and casting the thing aside now that it would no longer relieve her pain. “The first time I saw a Templar, I was but a child. I had barely begun to walk, but still I remember. I was afraid, terrified. I did not see a flesh-born creature. I saw only metal, warped and shaped into a form, like a golem made of steel.” She said, unable to focus her eyes on anything in particular. “And the second time…”

Asfaloth stirred at her back. His cleft hooves brushed against her leg. Josephine started at the sudden movement. Scars that had long since closed began to burn as though they were fresh. She winced, and for a moment she felt a sense of panic when the taste of blood filled her mouth. Shaking her head, she realized it was an imagined sensation. “The second time, I saw pitiless, hollow things who brandished fire and steel and hatred. I have seen them many times since, and all have looked upon me and my kin with as much compassion as they hold for demons.”

There was silence then. Josephine was staring at her own hands in silent contemplation. Etain was staring at nothing, but she was listening to the crackle of the fire as though it were the most important thing in the world. She should not have spoken her mind. She should have remained silent. It was not something to speak of aloud. Even though she had barely spoken of the past for all the details it entailed, she felt ashamed for having voiced it at all. Her shoulders sagged, and her held bent low. 

“I am sorry” Josephine said gently.

“Feel sorry for your own sufferings. It is the past for me.” She said distantly, sighing at the uncontrolled harshness in her own tone. “You ought to rest while you can. Tomorrow will be no easier.”

The ambassador rose to her feet and bowed her head, casting a glance filled with worry in her direction. She stopped for a moment at the doorway to the tent, her hand poised upon the loose flap. 

“Not all are like the men I spoke of I think” Etain said suddenly. 

Understanding the sentiment of her words, Josephine smiled gently before disappearing into the tent. It was a lie, but a comforting one. Etain did not believe it in truth. But somewhere deep in her mind, absolution was turning into uncertainty, and the lie did not seem so much a lie as it should have been. 

It was then that she shut her eyes and let Asfaloth curl his long limbs around her, and softly hummed her mothers song until sleep overcame her. 

 

He had heard her every word. 

In the darkness of the tent, Cullen stared up at the canvassed ceiling and winced at the spite and hatred that rang out in the Herald’s voice. He remembered being a child, giddy and hopeful and wholly innocent, lingering after every sermon to hover by the local Templars and speak with them for as long as his parents would permit. He loved it, and hung on their every word, even if they were only indulging the whims of a child. When he looked at them, he saw strength and bravery, and armour that seemed to glow as if they had been touched by the Maker himself. To him, they were safety, they were the beacon of light that protected the good and the devout. 

Where he saw heroism, Etain saw evil.

He should have been angered. He should have felt the overwhelming desire to put down such slander. Templars did not involve themselves with the politics of elves. In all his time serving the order, he had never heard of such a thing. Yet he knew, deep down, that the order was not without its flaws, that there were those who operated in manners that the public would have seen as shocking. There were men like Samson, who acted out of desperation and disregard. There were Commanders like Meredith, who’s morality crumbled beneath the weight of fear.

There were men like himself who were blinded by paranoia.

Above all else, it was the hatred in her words struck him deep. Uldred and his blood mages had warped his mind with such intensity that every mage he encountered from that day became an enemy. He bore them no pity, and thought only of the threat they posed to others. 

And that was exactly how she saw him. It was that same hatred he once felt, was it not? She had right to do so, even if she did not know his sins in their entirety. He was a guilty man, deserving of judgment. 

“Not all are like the men I spoke of I think” Were the last words she said.

Whether it was a lie to comfort Josephine or it was something she truly believed, he did not know, but either way it gave him no comfort. His brethren had become monsters. A man he had once called friend had set them upon Haven to slaughter the innocent. 

For the first time since Kirkwall, Cullen felt truly alone.


	57. A Stolen Glance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition has travelled for over a week with little sign of their course, and Cullen finds himself longing to break a promise to himself...until an awkward situation unfolds and proves to be a distraction.

It had been a week of hard travel, and the merciless cold had taken lives by the dawn of every new day. For most, it was a blessing; soldiers who’s injuries were beyond curing, who cried out for a quick death to end their pain. For others, it was a tragedy. Two villagers had taken a fever and were dead by morning, and a child, a girl no older than six had followed the next day.  
Etain rode out every day with the same somber expression upon her face, her good hand blistering painfully from where the leather of her saddle began to chafe beneath her grip. Every day was spent searching for a fortress that held no shape or form within her imagination. Every night was spent inspecting the welfare of her charges. When the hunters returned with meat, though it was often not enough to sustain their numbers, Etain would oversee their task and advise on how to get the best cuts of meat and harvest every morsel from the bone. The bones themselves were then strung up around the camps perimeter on a thin length of string, an old trick to alert the camp if anything crossed through them. Tanning racks were constructed from sturdy branches to dry out pelts. Due to their constant movement, she had them fixed to the wagons so they could dry through the day as well, and be put to use as blankets and coverings.  
Sometimes, when she had rode on as far as she could without losing them, she would ride back and circle them as they walked, inspecting the condition of everyone who travelled on foot. They were full of weariness, beleaguered by the endless travel. It was good. It meant the night would bring them sleep, for they would be too exhausted to pay heed to the pained sounds that echoed from the tents that held the sick and injured. What she feared the most was the fever. It had claimed three already, and fever could spread like wildfire. The weather had been consistently cold, and while people complained of it, she was grateful. They would be at more risk if there were a transition. Heat and humidity would spread sickness at a deadly speed. When the camp was set up each night, she would burn small bundles of bitter elfroot in shallow bowls outside the clustered tents.  
When time was permitted, she would sit by the fire and invite someone to join her. Most often it was Leliana, for her ravens were of great use when deployed to the skies in the mornings. They flew for a time, and would come back soon after with some sign of where they had been or what they had seen; herbs, branches, even stones. They could be followed to the locations and lead others to forage while she tracked the path.  
Other times she would call upon a scout or a healer. There was no particular reasoning for the choice other than to see how they were coping, and if there was anything in particular they needed. Of course there was always something. Most of the time it was herbs for poultices, or more meat or cloth. Even if it was not something that could be obtained with ease, she tried nonetheless to accommodate it. That was the height of her interactions with others. Sometimes she sought out Solas when her wounds needed to be inspected, but for the most part she let him deal with the soldiers. Cassandra was content to inspect the condition of the soldiers who guarded the camp. Cullen, however, was most often with his injured men. Sometimes when she passed, she could hear him talking to them, praising their bravery and ensuring they were comfortable. He treated them as though they were his own kin rather than as subordinates. Once, she glanced through the tent flaps and saw him kneeling beside a young man, helping him hold a waterskin to his trembling lips. When he looked up at saw her, she had lowered her head and left without a word. 

 

By the eighth day, she found the ruins of a watchtower, crumbled and half buried in the snow. Before riding back to the Inquisition, she walked through the ruin and crouched down, picking up a stone that lay at her feet. She shook the snow from it and turned it over in her hand. This ruin had lain undisturbed for an age. The snow had settled and melted time and time again, and the walls had weathered many storms before they had begun to topple. If it were still standing, perhaps she could have climbed to the top and seen far enough into the distance to observe that which it had once guarded. She wanted to scale what was left of the wall, but once again her arm prevented such activity. Frowning, she returned to Asfaloth, and she rode back to inform of what was found.  
It was there that they camped for the night, and the illusion of the crumbled stone’s original purpose seemed to give the people a small measure of peace.  
Etain sat by the fire and swallowed her stew in large mouthfuls. The meat was little more than gristle, and small pieces of bone clinked between her teeth, but food was food, and she was glad to have something to fill her belly. Her wounds were healing, but some fared worse than others. The cut on the side of her head had reduced to a thin scab, and her abdomen was beginning to trouble her less. Her arm, however, was her greatest worry. There were times when she could barely feel her hand, and the torn muscles under her armpit were throbbed endlessly. She knew that her time in the saddle worsened her recovery, but her pain came second to her duty. Now that the camp was relatively quiet, she could bathe her bruised body, wash away the blood and the festering smell of rotting salves, and that perhaps would make it an easier task to conceal just how difficult it was becoming to haul herself onto Asfaloth’s back each morning.  
Josephine came to her after a time, the neat bun of her hair loose and disheveled, her eyes filled with tiredness. She sat for a while by the fire and spoke of little beyond a half-hearted report of the welfare of the camp. Etain nodded and asked if it would be agreeable to use the war council’s tent for a short while, while Leliana, Cassandra and Cullen were preoccupied with their own tasks. The Ambassador simply nodded and asked if she would require assistance.  
Etain knew it would be a difficulty even to shrug the loose undershirt from her back, but she would not deny anyone their rest. She merely asked that Solas bring her a fresh poultice for her arm, and leaves of elfroot to fix beneath fresh plasters. With a nod, Josephine disappeared between the tents, and Etain began to scoop snow into the empty cooking pot. She sat in silence and watched it rapidly turn to water, and added more snow as it boiled until there was a substantial amount for her use. Amongst the supplies in the quartermaster’s tent she found two wash buckets. She filled them one by one, and placed them in the tent before she laid out some cloth trimmings to bind the wounds. The ones she wore now would be washed and saved for use when they were dry again. When Solas came to her he gave her what she had requested, and told her to call upon him when her arm would need to be placed back into a brace. Alone at last, she sat cross-legged on the dry floor of the tent, gritting her teeth as she struggled to pull the shirt over her head with one hand. Peeling off her leather trousers seemed immeasurably simpler, even with the bruises that darkened her thighs and calves from where she had crashed through wood and stone. When it was done, she moved on to the more difficult task; her braid. It took her ten minutes just to free the leather bindings, for she had not undone it for days. When they finally loosened, she shook her long hair free and let it fall down her back. For a moment she sat and let the steam of the hot water wash over her face, and then she slowly began to unwrap her bindings. Inch by inch, her breaths turned to sighs of relief. She had not undone the bindings for so long she had forgotten what it felt like to breathe so freely, but the true relief came when she splashed the water to her naked, sweat encrusted skin, and the sad, beleaguered camp around her seemed to disappear as she sank into the pleasure of cleansing water washing away the filth of days worth of travel. 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

His name was Thomas. Thomas Tallys. He had lived most of his life in Denerim before joining the Inquisition. He was a young man of nineteen years and proudly served as a soldier as he had always wanted to. Cullen held his hand as his breaths became unsteady, and still he talked of his family back in the city with such cheer. Whenever his eyes began to roll back in his head, Cullen would give his hand a squeeze to keep him conscious. “Thank you” he would say each time, and Cullen nodded and pressed him to tell him more. It was not an easy task, to look upon this young mans face while he fought to stay alive.  
He reminded him so much of his younger brother, Branson, even though it had been years since he had seen him and even then he had been a child just a few years his junior.  
Despite how much it made his heart wrench, this was where he wanted to be. His men needed to see him here with them, to know he was proud, that the Inquisition was proud, of everything they had done. Every man and woman in this tent had a name, and he made sure to learn it, and learn of who they had been beyond soldiers of the Inquisition. It only made it harder when they died. They had begun the journey with thirty injured, and now ten had died of that number, and another three had taken a fever and followed within the week. He was determined now to see this journey through, if for nothing else but to see their families informed of their bravery.  
Mother Giselle came into the tent and placed a hand upon his arm. “You should go and eat something, Commander” she said gently. “Let this man rest, the healers will watch over him tonight.”  
Tentatively, he let go of the boy’s hand and stood upright. Around him, the injured huddled in their stretchers, some silent in sleep and others sounding out their pains as they shifted from side to side. They were not adequately supplied to tend them all as they needed. Everything was stretched thin, and he wondered how long they could last in such conditions. Bidding farwell to Thomas, he left him to his rest and went to join his men at the fireside. They didn’t rise to attention in a bluster of formality as they had done in Haven. Perhaps they were too tired, or perhaps he had grown too lax in his authority to earn a reaction. Either way he was glad. They still did him the courtesy of clearing a seat for him, and thrust a tankard of warm ale into his hand. There he stayed for some time, glad of the company of his brethren, glad of the ale that warmed his throat and chased away some of the worries in his mind. He wondered idly how low morale would plummet when even the simple pleasure of alcohol was no longer possible. He rarely partook of it himself, preferring to keep his wits about him, but there was little else to take joy from when talk was reserved for planning. Others sought a more physical escape. Even now he could hear the sound of lover’s coupling in a tent nearby. Once, it might have made him blush like a schoolboy, but he was far too used to it by now. Battle stirred the blood of young soldiers, and soothed them when they needed comforting, and his time with the Order had proved that even the militant soldiers of Andraste could be swayed by urges of the flesh. Even now, having consumed a generous amount of ale, his mind worked through the prospect of such indulgence, but it was a thought that passed as quickly as it had formed, and left him feeling rather angered with himself for thinking of it at all. Unlike most of his soldiers, he was tempered with a better standard of discipline, and that youthful flame of desire had long been quenched by bitter life lessons and haunting memories. He instead dropped his tankard by the fire and bid his men goodnight. Before the cold took hold of him again, he would go and make an attempt at sleep. With luck, perhaps he would have a dreamless sleep this night, and be better rested by the morning. He had already given his own blanket at the infirmary, but the fur of his coat was adequate enough for the few hours he had to rest.  
Between the cold night air and the emptiness of his stomach combined with what drink he had consumed, he very nearly lost his way navigating through the small sea of tents. He was thinking of Thomas, and the family he spoke of. Then, he was suddenly thinking of his own family, and how they would likely think him dead if word had spread about Haven. And suddenly, as though it were a thought that had waited for the right moment to lurch from the shadows of his mind, he was thinking of Lyrium. How long had it been, four months? Six? He was in full right to take it now, if for nothing else but to keep his body strong and his mind unclouded, and he wanted it desperately. He suddenly felt a great thirst for it, and that was chasing away the shame thinking of it. Buried in a chest in beside his bedroll, there was a box with all the tools he needed to mix a philter. Just until they reached safety…just until his mind was not crumbling beneath guilt and despair…surely it was justifiable?  
He was already salivating at the thought, as though he had been thirsting since the last time Lyrium had touched his lips and hadn’t realized. Suddenly his mind was focused on finding the route back to the tent, intent on reward for doing so. He saw the fire that stood outside the tent and swiftly moved towards it, almost tripping on the guide-wire of the quartermaster’s tent as he rounded it quickly.

That was when he saw her. 

The tent flaps were pulled back and fixed on the outside, the large doorway lit by a lantern within. In the center of the tent, firelight danced across a river of silver hair, sleek and straight and shiny from wetness. It cascaded down over skin that seemed in the light to flicker between gold and bronze, and there were other colours too; loops of ice-blue and verdant green that spiralled and coiled around elegant shoulders and toned, lithe forearms. Her willowy fingers combed through her shimmering locks and twisted through their thickness. 

He stood there motionless, silent, all too aware that he was gawking in a manner that he might have cuffed a recruit around the ear for when he held the title of Knight-Captain. Yet he could not look away, and his hunger for Lyrium disappeared and left his mind completely empty.  
Seemingly oblivious to his presence, she continued to bathe without shame, splashing water on her chest and rubbing her fingers in a circular motion over her breasts and running them slowly over her shoulder where the water trickled down in droplets. She had her back towards him, and he was unsure whether he was relieved or disappointed about that. 

Sweet Maker, but she was a beauty. For a moment, he had to wonder if he was dreaming, for never in his life had he looked upon such an exotic, sensual sight. 

It was only when she scooped her thick hair and flung it over her shoulder that the mesmerizing illusion shattered. Across the narrow expanse of her back, long, deep scars marred the flesh that should have been smooth. Some crossed over others, and each one was equally crude in appearance. They were not wounds of war, that was a certainty. There was cruelty and intention in every single mark. 

Unconsciously, he gasped, and it was then that Etain turned. He suddenly felt as though he were his eighteen-year-old self; a stammering, awkward youngster who wanted to bolt in any direction but forwards and bang his head against a wall for his stupidity in this sort of situation.

He expected reprimand, aggressive reprimand, or at the very least a shriek of shock and a scramble to cover exposed flesh. He wanted to turn away, he wanted to leave and come back when he was capable of giving an appropriate reaction and a sincere apology for his rudeness and not a stuttering mess of jargon that would cause further offense. 

She gazed at him over her shoulder, her amethyst eyes glittering from behind the long strands of silver. The motion of her head sent her hair sweeping over her back again. She was staring back at him, unmoving, in the most unusual way. 

It was neither an inviting look nor an angered look of reprimand. It was simply observation, as though she were merely registering his presence. Mild curiosity. Nothing more, nothing less. 

With no reaction to dictate his next action, Cullen dropped his eyes to the ground and bowed his head silently before turning away. His eyes remained fixed upon the snow as he made a speedy exit, his heart racing in his chest. He continued walking until he was outside the camp perimeter, and only stopped when he reached the ruin of the old watchtower that they camped beside.  
He stayed there a while, staring absently across the misty mountains, until enough time had passed that he might avoid an awkward encounter with the Herald as mortifying as the last. 

When he returned, everyone was already asleep. Next to the war council’s tent, the large Hart stag dozed with his body curled around his master protectively. He didn’t so much as brave a look at her as he rushed past in case she was awake and had a mind to chastise him now that she was, hopefully, not quite so…exposed. 

 

Collapsing into his bedroll, he pulled his furs up around his chin, and there in the silence he began to recite the chant of light. It was a futile effort to push away the sensual image that had burned itself into his mind, of the way Etain had looked at him with not the least bit of shame or shyness for her modesty, as if it were not at all an unusual thing. That in itself threatened to bring forth more questions that his imagination might feel compelled to answer. 

And then there were the scars…


	58. He who listens, heals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long stint of absence, i am proud to present the latest chapter of this series!
> 
> A month has passed and still the Inquisition wanders the unforgiving Frostbacks in search of a new home. In a time of such hardship, the spirit of Compassion finds ways to heal the hurts of the weary travellers.

_High in the cold reaches of the Frostback Mountains, in a camp that was shrouded in darkness and ravaged by wind and snow, a boy sits and listens to the voices crying out in the silence. He knows he is the only one who hears the words, where others only hear the emptiness where they are supposed to be._  
Snow gathers upon the wide brim of his hat, which dips beneath the weight, but he barely takes notice. He is glad of it, though. It makes him look as though he belongs, and that makes everything easier. People are either too weary or too busy to take notice of him, even though he does not run for the cover of a tent or fetch a blanket. He does not eat, or sleep, or even breathe in the way others do, but he looks right, and that is enough. For a time, listening brought a throbbing pain to his mind. Voices knotted together like a tangled ball of string. There are so many, so close together, all longing to be heard. Eventually he can find the end of the string of thoughts, and slowly begins to unravel them. He needs to help. A dagger, sheathed at his side, already drips with blood. A soldier named Thomas was in so much pain that he begged all day for a quick death. None of the healers had the heart to end it, so he came to him with his blade in hand and ended his suffering. When they found him dead with his coverings drenched in blood, none questioned and none remembered, just as it had been when he had done the same for Chancellor Roderick. They were only relieved when the anguished groans ended, and more relieved they did not have to take such a task upon themselves. They added the young man’s name to the growing list of the dead, and nothing more was said. In his last moments he had thought of his family, imagined the scent of roasting chicken that accompanied every gathering in his childhood home, felt the caress of the sweet young stable girl who used to tuck wildflowers under the stirrups of his saddle so their sweet smell would follow him when he rode along the quiet roads. Alyssa. That was her name. They had spent the night together in the hay loft and held each other until dawn, and with the sun rose, he had sworn he would return and marry her when he had made a name for himself with the Inquisition. He would never be able to fulfill that promise, but the memory stayed with him as he had breathed his last, and it brought him great peace. As to Roderick, who had found his courage in the end, the boy gave him that which he truly desired, and he slipped away from this world with the song of the faithful ushering him to his great reward. Tonight, however, those who were injured lay slumped beneath thick blankets and found a merciful sleep even on such a cold night, and left him to observe the thoughts of the others. A man who bore another mans name relieved a weary guardsmen of his post and took his place. He was used to the trials of war, and sitting idle for too long made him feel a heavy guilt. The wind whipped at his hard features but he remained, still as stone, peering out into the darkness. Redemption was far away from him, almost unreachable it seemed, but an opportunity to act was a temporary weight off his shoulders. A woman better suited to the fineries of the imperial court hid disdain behind an iron mask of resolve and observed him with hawk-like scrutiny through parted tent flaps. She knew, but she didn’t know she knew. He never got too close to her. She would be afraid of what he was. A dwarf sat by a dying fire in silence. The only thing he was thinking of was a name; Corypheus. 

Their thoughts had not changed since he first started to listen. Almost a month has passed and every day seems the same as the last. A camp filled with people bereft of a home, who walk the mountains by day and sleep through their fears when exhaustion takes them. Some he can help, through small gestures. The Nightingale has seen this life before. Once, she would have stayed awake all night just to share that peaceful time with a woman who made her feel safe and protected. Now, she sits alone in silence and wonders how life was ever so innocent. When she pours herself a cup of mead, he waits patiently for her to turn her attention elsewhere before he slips a little dash of honey into the mixture. Lynaia used to do that, and the memory makes her happy.  
The Ambassador is not used to such hardship. Every night she huddles beneath a blanket and finds no comfort on the hard ground. She cannot help but wonder if it was she is not fit to hold her position. When the cold seeps into her bones, she wonders if she will perish on the mountains. He makes sure to warm her shoes by the fire when she has fallen asleep, and scrapes the dirt from the heels. She does not like to be anything less than presentable.  
Others he could only keep his distance from. The longer he stays near them, the closer they look at him. Even when they forget his face, the next time they look closer.  
The Seeker almost knows, but she is not afraid. The Iron Bull knows, but the Iron Bull knows everything, and says nothing of it. Solas knows. He likes that Solas knows. The elf makes friends with his ilk, though his mind is full of ancient things and distant sorrows. 

The snow piling upon the brim of his hat becomes so heavy it falls all at once in an audible thump and scatters over his shoulders. He gets to his feet and walks slowly through the narrow paths between the tents. Another voice has piqued his curiosity, and soon he finds the source.  
A stag lies in the snow, his long limbs curled beneath the warmth of his belly.  
“Hello” the boy says timidly.  
He is afraid he will spook the creature. Sometimes animals were afraid of him, but the stag merely stares back at him, his wide nose snuffling curiously. The boy smiles and approaches hand first, reaching out tentatively so the creature may smell him.  
“Asfaloth” he says happily, excited by his positive reaction and the knowledge that he has made a friend. “It is very nice to meet you Asfaloth.”  
Asfaloth pushes his nose against his hand and licks it. “My name is Cole”  
He understands. He knows like Solas knows, because he sees more. The snow doesn’t settle on his back as it does on everything else. It lands and melts almost instantly, mingling with the sweat in places where the saddle has been strapped all day. He is tired because of a long day of travel. He is weary because his rider is weary. Cole feels his worries as if they were his own.  
A hundred little memories seem to flood his mind at once. He sees an elven girl with soft, silver hair and kind eyes, kneeling in the dirt, her feet bare and her hand held out, trembling from excitement as a tiny fawn teeters towards her while his mother still licks the cloudy fluid of her womb from his sticky coat.  
He sees the same girl, taller now and almost a woman, holding a blanket in both hands and approaching a stag twice her size just a little too impatiently. The creature lets her throw the blanket over his back but he will not kneel at her request. With a huff of frustration she climbs the wooden wall of the pen and waits until his head is turned to jump onto his back. As soon as her flanks touch his belly, his back legs lurch into the air, and the girl is hurdled from his back and into a deep puddle of mud. The elves that sit by the gate of the pen whoop with laughter, save for a stern elder who shakes her head and cuffs the dirt-covered girl around the ear. It doesn’t deter her. She returns and returns day after day. She is stubborn as he is stubborn, and through that, an unbreakable bond is formed. Asfaloth feels suddenly warmer at the thought.  
Cole keeps his eyes shut and listens intently. The memories are a sweet timeline of two souls bound to each other in experience and loyalty. He misses his herd. He misses his mate. He misses the familiar sights and scents. Cole pats his neck gently. The riders emotions are felt by her companion and bleed into the good thoughts, and there is a weight of great sadness. While the blizzard ravages the camp, she cannot sleep outside. Neither are happy to be separated. This is a strange world to them both.  
The hart’s thoughts are loud, but the mind of the rider is clouded and restless. He tries to catch hold of her ruminations, but they are at once too loud and too quiet for him to find the sense. It is the smoke of the elfroot. Even now he can smell it mingling with the damp scent of the snow. He knows she takes it every night. It soothes the pain of her wounds and brings a mist that calms a storm within. She is afraid, but it makes the fear feel distant. It makes it possible to walk without staggering. They can’t see her weakness. She cannot allow it. 

She walks like a ghost through the camp, the cold washing over her skin, and yet she does not shiver. Only when the whip of the wind strikes the vulnerable spot beneath her armpit does she grit her teeth. She never shows the pain, just as mother told her not to. But Cole knows it is becoming difficult to bear. So unsure, so confused. She stands at the edge of the camp and shields her eyes from the snow, searching for the road ahead and wondering if this is a road she was meant to take. He knows that she needs help. She needs to shrug the weight of distrust before it becomes all consuming. 

He follows from a distance at first, and approaches when she has stilled on the mountains edge. As if sensing the intrusion she turns and peers at him through blurry vision. She says nothing, expecting he is like the other refugees, requesting a blanket or the chance of better food.  
“You stayed because you knew they needed you, not because fate marked you. “Look back and I am lost”. But you were found, even if it wasn’t the finding you expected. Every step you took was yours. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. She wouldn’t want you to live with it because of what happened. She would know these ones are not the same and teach you to see it too.”

She cant think straight but the hurt is there. He feels it, resonating within him too. Flashes of scattered memories struggling simultaneously to surface and flee. A woman holding back tears as she watches a hooded figure beat the child huddled on a cold stone floor….whispers between the guards outside a cell. They call her a demon spawn, a monster….empty eyes devoid of love or sweetness and a brand that doesn’t belong where it is burned into flesh….the taste of blood and Lyrium choking, drowning…they did it…they made the child a wolf and they felt the consequences…they made a monster….the vessel is empty… blood and lyrium and nothing more…only blood and lyrium and nothing more….

He has to stop hearing. It is too much all at once, and she can FEEL him listening. Eyes only moments ago bleary and unfocused, grow sharp with shock and suspicion. Lips part slowly, poised for exclamation. She knows. She knows. She cant know, not like this. She’ll be afraid if she knows someone can get in. "What are y-" 

In an instant his hand flies upwards. “Forget” He says with a swift wave of his hand, and nervously watches as her demeanor grows calm again. Her expression is blank. His words seep into her mind where she can’t recall them, but they have been heard. 

_Cole disappears into the night and leaves her alone in the storm. It was too much to try to fix at once, but he feels more at ease. The words will help even if she cant remember, and when the storm passes, he knows the healing can begin._


	59. The dream walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Etain comes to terms with her responsibilities, and her path becomes clear at last. 
> 
>  
> 
> Finally have been able to post this chapter after months of real life stuff getting in the way! Hope you guys enjoy :)

She ran with the footfalls of a beast, racing silently through a raging storm. The wind whipped and flurried all around her, determined to repel her advance, but still she pushed on. Like a stalwart companion, the moon ran with her, slipping through the tangled branches above, bright and shimmering as it broke through the thickness of the clouds.  
“Onwards!” the moon cried, but she made no answer, too focused upon her task.  
Others were nearby, faceless wisps that seemed at once to be familiar yet different. They trudged through the snow; men, women and children huddled together against the elements, and there were hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, behind, beside and ahead of her.  
“You’re nothing but a mistake” came a voice that rippled in the wind.  
“Pretender, you toy with forces beyond your ken. No more” came another, and this one sent a jet of white hot pain through her shoulder that almost brought her crashing to the ground.  
“Onwards! Onwards!” came the voice of the moon, and the pain was gone.  
The dead folk paid her no heed, for their steps were but a memory of a journey made long ago.  
The long walk, she knew, the journey made by the free elves seeking the land that would be there new home. “The long walk” she panted, her voice a deep growl. “Just like…the long walk. death….fear…hope….”

And then she saw it.

A toppled stone gate stood unfettered by the elements, guarded by two stone sentinels. Every spirit that walked beneath the arch disappeared into the whirling snow. Her galloping stride slowed to a halt as she watched in awe and listened to their far away cries of exaltation. They had found their sanctuary, their answer to the question of their survival. Now it remained to be seen if she would find hers.  
Silently, reverently, she plodded through the archway, her eyes shut against the snow. When she opened them again, she was staring up at the sky. The storm was gone, left behind in the world that seemed far, far away now. In its place, great plains of light rippled and danced across the canvass of stars. A thousand beasts raced across their paths to join the bright stars far beyond. Tears streaked down her face at the sight of them, and she was loathe to tear her gaze from such a wondrous sight. When at last she did, the great statues of the elven gods towered above her, and she bowed her head in respect.  
These were not the statues chiseled from the stone of their land by the Dalish craftsmen. The Pantheon before her was forged of something greater, neither flesh nor stone, but their eyes showed life within them, and she knew they watched her now.  
Her heart raced and her lips trembled. “Please hear me” She whispered weakly, touching her forehead to the ground. “I have come to ask of your wisdom.”  
There was no answer. She waited in silence, looking from one statue to another. Mighty Elgar’nan gazed down upon her with blazing, furious eyes. Andruil looked to the north with her blessed bow poised. Mythal shut her eyes and seemed to draw her lips tighter in sorrow. Falon’din and Dirthamen looked only to one another, as if they spoke to one another as only twin-souls could. Sylaise stared intently at the fire in her hands. June’s eyes were for the curved blade in his hand alone. Ghilanain simply looked on to the path at her back.  
Tears of frustration stung her eyes as she lowered her forehead to the ground once more. “Creators, I beg of you. My path is hidden from me” She hissed despairingly. “Look into my soul, for I cannot see its bearing. Show me who I am in truth, for I cannot see it.”  
Silence remained, and her heart fell deeper into despair. Like a child she wept, alone before the Gods where none could see the shame of her helplessness.  
Fury swept over her like a tidal wave, fury for her weakness, fury for the shame of defeat at the hands of Corypheus, and at the blindness she felt in the face of her task. She threw hear head back and let out a mighty roar to the sky. “WHAT SAY YOU?! SHOW ME! SHOW ME WHO I AM!!!”

Suddenly, the ground beneath her shook as though something had awoken. The snow and the dirt sifted and churned, until to her shock, she found herself looking down at the sky. No, she realized, not the sky, but a reflection, as though the entirety of the sacred ground had become a mirror. She saw herself in it, no longer a beast but as herself, but something more. Uninjured, unclothed, the anchor bursting to life and enveloping her hand, and then her arm, until veins of green chased along the expanse of her skin and connected with her vallaslin. Her amethyst eyes changed too, and glowed as bright as the anchor itself. For one sickening moment, she thought it a sign of corruption at the hands of Corypheus. Yet there was no pain from it now, and it did not feel so unnatural and foreign as it always had before. It felt….right, as though simply a part of her as much as her heart was.  
“The orb is of our people” said a voice, so familiar although she could not place it now as she basked in the strange radiance of the anchors power. “The relic of an ancient past.”  
“The past of the elvhen” She whispered, beginning to discern the meaning of the voices words.. “A part of us. A part of me”  
Her eyes searched through the haze for the one who spoke to her. Beyond the statues of the Creators lay another stone figure, basking in the light of the moon although it faced away from her. She realized belatedly that it was Fen’harel, and her heart skipped a beat. Was it cruel irony that the dread wolf answered her pleas, or were her Gods truly locked away in slumber with only their jailor to answer? Too desperate to care, she asked again the question that yearned to be answered.  
“What must I do?”  
She blinked rapidly, trying to focused on the stone wolf in the distance. She could have sworn it turned its head to observe her. “Lead” it said simply.  
“How can I lead if I am blind to my own path?”  
The anchor released another sudden burst of light, and she realized with great shock that she carried the answer in her own hand.  
“Corypheus meant for this to be a weapon of destruction” she breathed. “But the weapon is mine now. It does not control me, I control it.”  
For a moment she sat and contemplated everything that had brought her here to this moment of crisis and revelation. Every splintered moment found its place and began to form a greater understanding. “ I understand” she sighed gladly, feeling the great spiritual weight lift from her at last.  
Below her, the stars and the sky began to fade, and then the statues, until there was nothing left of the dream and she was hurdled back into the waking world, resurfacing like a drowning man with a ravenous gasp of freezing air. 

____________________________________________

Etain sat bolt upright and blinked rapidly, adjusting to her surroundings. She’d fallen asleep in the command tent, and given the strength of the fire, surmised that it hadn’t been for long, noticing the wood was the same as when she had stoked it. Still breathing heavy, ragged breaths, she wiped the sweat from her brow with her good hand and felt the surge of pain that usually came with movement thanks to the ribs that refused to mend and the muscle tearing in her left arm that had become infected more than once during the journey. Outside, the storm still raged, making the tent flap billow and snap against the canvas. She had only slept inside because of the storm, and the insistence of the war council who feared, in their ignorance, that she might catch a chill and be all the worse for it. Leliana, Josephine and Cassandra slept huddled in their cots behind her.  
Cullen’s makeshift bed was the nearest to the door, only she realized far too late that he was not asleep like his companions. He was, in fact, sitting upright facing the door and had been for what she presumed for quite some time. His blonde head jerked back at the sound of her movement.  
“Fenhedis lasa!” she murmured crudely in her bleary state, earning her a strange look.  
“Trouble sleeping?” He asked, rather sheepishly.  
She grunted, thankful she’d slid a knife under the saddle she’d been resting her head against. Sleeping in the same tent as a male, especially a human, was a prospect she despised. Yet to his credit, he seemed rather unenthused about the idea of it, having suggested he find quarters elsewhere. If not for Cassandra, he likely would have. Though he’d stayed in the company of the other women of the war council during their journey, she’d noticed his great efforts to avoid her, and whatever the reason, she was immensely thankful for it.  
“I did not think to sleep restfully in the company of humans” she said irritably.  
He frowned and rolled his eyes, sensing a more direct referral to himself. “ I did offer to leave.”  
Sighing, she shook her head, realizing the cause of her anger was not him as it probably should have been, but rather the dizzying headache that had developed since she had opened her eyes. “I was not worried about that” she said gruffly. “Not you. Had you thought to do anything unsavoury you would have been a eunuch by dawn.”  
He blushed crimson at that and looked back to the storm. Etain observed it as well, but her mind fell more to her dream. Her heart was still hammering hard in her chest. The statues, the ghosts, the voice….  
She hoisted herself onto her feet suddenly and picked up the saddle. Pushing past the commander and walking into the snow, she called out to Asfaloth and answered the question she sensed would come. “I will be riding out, ahead of the camp. Send scouts, for I will leave signs of my passage. “  
Asfaloth came to her call, his antlers heavy with snow and his coat no better. With a heavy shake, it was sent in every direction.  
Suddenly alert, Cullen stood in the doorway and gaped at her as though she were mad. “You cannot be serious Herald” he exclaimed, pointing to the dark clouds above. “That storm is deadly enough if the mountain doesn’t swallow you first.”  
“the injuries will sooner do it than the storm.” She said plainly, surprised at her own calmness given the weeks of doubt and anxiety that had come before. It didn’t feel as though she was riding to her death. It simply felt like any other ride, as routine as any she’d gone out on before the Conclave. “It needs to be done.”  
“ I fail to see your reasoning” he said dismissively.  
She hitched the last buckle on the saddle and slid into her seat, biting back the pain in her left side as Asfaloth rose to his feet. Why was this man always around to question her actions and the most bothersome of times?!  
“I said I would lead these people to safety” she said determinedly. “Whether I die in the process is inconsequential so long as the task is completed and my vow is honoured.”  
If it were anyone else and she had been the one to hear of such a plan, she too might have called their actions mad. But she knew in her heart that every moment wasted would push them closer to death. Riding out now, and not stopping until she found this fortress she could not envision, would better assure the safety of her charges.  
“I will ride on, you must follow” she said determinedly. “Look for the signs, and keep these people safe.”  
She gave him a final nod and he returned it, albeit reluctantly. “Be safe, Herald.”

Her ribs ached and rattled in her chest. Her body strained and protested. Her eyes blurred and her head grew so dizzy she was sure she would fall from the saddle. Yet she pressed on, through hail and storm, through snow and wind, not because she could, but because she had to, because her life was nothing when many others could be saved. She slowed only to mark the trees or the rocks with a telltale sign of her passing. Her belly ached for food and her lips dried and cracked without water when the sun was high. The leather cord that kept her braid neat snapped and left her thick hair to fall about her face and obscure her vision as it gathered large amounts of snow.  
When there was no light to help her find her way, she hoisted her left arm into the air with the help of the right one to help Asfaloth find his way.

Four days and nights passed with no rest, no food, but still the ranger and her companion charged through storm, heat and cold, until at last, after what seemed like an eternity, the journey ended, and she sank to her knees in the snow and roared out to the sky above, a great cry of victory loud enough perhaps to wake the God’s themselves.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Herald hadn’t been seen in days. The Inquisition continued on when the storm broke, where scouts were deployed to follow the last orders left behind by Herald Lavellan.  
Cullen could barely focus on the path ahead. He was exhausted, unused to trudging through such unforgiving terrain, his calves aching and burning from climbing and wading through snow. Josephine, so unused to the strain of such exhertion, travelled in one of the remaining wagons. Cassandra and Leliana were often at the head of their retinue alongside him, but there was rarely chatter. It seemed as though everyone had stopped speaking unless it was absolutely necessary. Perhaps it was exhaustion, perhaps fear, or simply because no one had anything left to say. The Herald’s departure had been utter madness. Although he had been the first to vouch for her charge over the Inquisition, he continued to question her actions and methods quite regularly. It didn’t help that he could barely look her in the eye since the night he’d come across her bathing. Even now it was difficult to get out of his mind. If she’d know he thought of it still, she might well have followed through on her threat to make him a eunuch. The thought made him shiver as much as the cold. He still felt immense shame for it nonetheless.  
Solas was keeping a brisk, meaningful pace ahead of him, and he was surprised to see the elf travelling ahead instead of staying back with the sick and injured as the rest of the mages did. The lithe elf scarcely made an imprint on the snow, save for those left behind by the staff he leaned upon.  
On the fourth day of travel, they were finally reaching the top of the slope, and Cullen found himself caring little so long as there was a decline to look forward to.  
Solas was the first to reach the top, and much to Cullen’s surprise, the calm brisk pace of the elf became a dash of great speed, and he was suddenly gone.  
Suddenly alert, he found himself breaking out into a run of his own, when a piercing cry rang out loudly on the other side of the embankment. 

It was the Herald! 

Was she hurt, or trapped? His mind conjured up a dozen grim reasons before he’d even reached the top to see what the commotion was about.  
When he finally did, he looked down to see two figures in the clearing ahead, beside a mound of large rocks. Solas was kneeling beside Etain, who looked as though she were doubled over in the snow. The stag was rolling in the snow nearby.  
Cassandra and Leliana were there ahead of him, skidding down the slope and running to her side. 

When he finally caught up, he realized it was none of the things he’d imagined. 

In a valley ahead, like something from a dream, great walls of black stone reached high into the sky, harbouring a huge fortress within, reached only by a large, ornate bridge that connected one chunk of land to another. 

It was perfect.

She did not cry out in pain. It was the cry of victory and relief, and he felt it now as he knelt in the snow and offered many thanks to the maker. 

It was not long before others joined the revelry and unadulterated joy of their leaders. Some sighed with relief while others sobbed with joy. Many chanted prayers and cried out “Praise be the Herald of Andraste!” With strength renewed by hope, they were soon walking through the gates of what would soon become their new home. 

Skyhold.

Cullen said the name over and over in his mind, admiring every aspect of masonry as though he’d never glanced at the comfort of walls before, although they were unkempt and in mighty need of repair. 

Once everyone had filed in, and filled the empty fortress grounds, distracted by the drunken feeling of salvation, the Herald reached out for her elven companion, who seemed to understand whatever it was that was unspoken, and handed her his staff. 

Cullen was momentarily distracted as he watched her lean upon it, and realized with a jolt of heavy concern that she was immensely pale, and limping badly. The ride must have worsened her injuries fiercely. He watched Solas subtely lead her away from the crowds towards a doorway, and the two disappeared inside without a word to anyone. Strangely, he felt a pang of resentment towards the male elf that he could not for the life of him explain.  
Thankfully Cassandra was there to draw his attention away. “We ought to let her rest. The formalities can wait until she is well again.” She said with a coy smile, and Cullen knew exactly what she was thinking.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never actually published anything before but I've enjoyed writing this so much i'd love to get some feedback!As i'm a true believer in slow character progression and content, there will no doubt be many chapters. So sit back and enjoy the ride m'dearies :)


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